Chapter IX: Plain Speech

In his own native island of Trinidad, Mr. Richard Shrewsbury had never given much more than a momentary attention to his garments, and he had wasted no time in considering the cut and the colour of his neckties. The conditions of climate, the fine carelessness of youth, had rendered him indifferent and superior on points of attire--a cool _négligé_ in the matter of body raiment, a wide-spreading Panama in the way of protection for his head, had seemed to him all that was necessary. He had presented himself at Carsdale’s in a neat blue serge suit, which he himself was secretly very vain of, but which Carsdale immediately perceived to be of colonial origin. Doubts about the blue serge began to gather in Richard’s mind when he looked at other young men, seen in London streets; he grew uneasy when he examined Carsdale, who was always scrupulously dressed; he became frightened when Carsdale introduced him to a great professor of the sartorial art in Saville Row. When that gentleman had done with him, and had sent home to his Berkeley Square flat a consignment of clothing which made even Mr. William Kedgin open his well-accustomed eyes, Richard blossomed out into the most particular and even finicking young man about town. He was now as nice and as discriminating about his clothes, his neckties, his linen, his everything, as he had been careless in his previous stage of existence, and Kedgin at times found him hard to please because of his plethora of supply. The man who only possesses two suits of clothes can quickly make up his mind as to which of them he will wear; the possessor of two or three dozen suits feels the dressing of himself an important affair, to be decided and regulated by many other matters than the mere accidents of weather. Richard’s wardrobe was shamefully extensive, and there were enough neckties and gloves about him to stock a haberdasher’s shop, and there were occasions when Kedgin found it hard to decide on what was most suitable because there were so many articles to choose from.

But never, during those first few weeks of his descent upon London, had Richard been so particular, so hard to please, so intent upon being attired in the very pink of perfection, as he was on the afternoon of the day which restored Burgoyne to him. He had surprised the explorer by hurrying away as soon as lunch was over: he surprised Kedgin by the almost woman-like exigencies which he put upon the resources of his toilet and his wardrobe. Kedgin secretly wondered what his young master was after; when he had at last turned him out in splendour from top to toe, had followed him out to his motor-car, and had heard Richard bid the chauffeur drive to Acacia Mansions, Maida Vale, he indulged in a dry chuckle.

“Maida Vale, eh?” said Kedgin as the car drove off. “Ah, that’s where all the actresses live. So that’s it, is it? I thought he’d be up to that game sooner or later. He’ll begin to cultivate a taste in bookays, and chocolates, and diamond rings now. Ah!--musical comedy, no doubt.”

The unconscious and innocent object of these speculations sped on northwards, secretly hoping, as youths of his age will, that he was so attired as to make a good impression. He was aware that he was going to what had very recently been a house of mourning; he had therefore endeavoured to make his grandeur very sober and solemn. But he was very grand, in spite of his solemnity, and the hall-porter, and the lift-boy, and everybody who encountered him at Acacia Mansions, wondered what youthful nobleman or foreign prince had penetrated to Maida Vale from the haunts of fashion.

A youthful and round-eyed maid, in a freshly starched cap and apron, admitted Mr. Shrewsbury to Number Seven, and having duly worshipped his clothes and secretly admired his handsome and boyish face, ushered him into a sitting-room, wherein, seated at an eminently business-like looking desk, piled high with papers and books which appeared to suggest financial, rather than literary matters, sat Miss Frances Leverton, just then engaged in writing. Near her, in a wide window-place made bright with flowers, a young lady lay on a sofa; something in the pale face and bright eyes which she turned on him as he entered told Richard that she was either a confirmed invalid or a cripple.

Miss Leverton rose from her desk with all the composure of a business woman, and gave the visitor one hand, while she indicated a chair with the other. Then she introduced the girl on the sofa as Miss Bryce, and motioned Richard to sit down. There was something about her manner that made Richard think of the formal fashion in which one is received in places of mere business, and he began to feel stiff and awkward, and very conscious of his elaborate toilet, and he was not at all made more at his ease by Miss Leverton’s first remark, nor by the very business-like way in which she re-seated herself at her desk, put the tips of her fingers together, and looked at him, he thought, as if he had come to buy shares or give instructions for drawing up a will.

“We were so hurried this morning, Mr. Shrewsbury,” said a very cold and clear-cut voice, “that I could not do more than tell you that you might call here. You asked if you might call to see my mother. I may as well tell you what you might have learnt elsewhere--that my mother is dead, and that I am the sole representative of the Leverton family. But I let you call because I wanted to ask you one or two questions which I couldn’t very well put to you on the steps of Mr. Winch’s office. Besides you have given me a considerable surprise.”

Richard felt as a small boy feels who is suddenly confronted with a stern head-master and talked to in a tone which he does not quite comprehend. He stole a glance at the recumbent figure on the sofa, and saw that Miss Bryce’s large eyes were fixed on a piece of fancy needle-work on which her thin fingers were busily engaged. He had hoped for some gleam of sympathy from her; getting none, he turned to Miss Leverton, and became instantly afraid of that young lady’s blue-grey eyes, which seemed to look him remorselessly through and through. In Mr. Winch’s office he had come to the conclusion that Frances Leverton was the handsomest girl he had ever seen; it hurt him now, in some strange, vague way, that she regarded him, a mild, innocent youth, so very sternly. “I--I’m awfully sorry!” he stammered. “I--really didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“You surprised me very much,” said Frances, with emphasis. “I understood you to say that a letter which you wrote to my father, and which arrived at his office on the morning of his death, was opened and retained by Mr. Carsdale?”

“Ye--es, that’s so,” replied Richard. “You see----”

“Can you tell me what you said in that letter?” demanded Frances. “You can, of course. You said, down there at Mr. Winch’s, that it was more or less of a business letter. Well, Mr. Shrewsbury?”

Richard felt very uncomfortable. He experienced a desire to wriggle; he became conscious that he was very hot and had a tendency to perspire.

“I--you see--I’m sure Carsdale, you know,” he began. “You see, I shouldn’t like Carsdale to be blamed, because Carsdale’s been very good to me, and----”

“Can’t you remember what you said to my father in that letter?” asked Frances, icily. “I think you can.”

Richard pulled himself together, and by a strenuous mental effort succeeded in remembering the grit and pith of what he had written from the Southampton hotel to Barclay Leverton. Frances listened to him without once taking her eyes from his face.

“So you call that a business letter, do you, Mr. Shrewsbury?” she said with a subtle inflection of voice which made Richard wince. “I don’t but that’s perhaps a matter of opinion. As to Mr. John Carsdale’s taste in such matters, the less said the better. But I was in my father’s office at Abbotsbury House that very morning, and Mr. Carsdale should have handed that letter to me. Surely, you yourself see that.”

“I--I understood that Mr. Carsdale was Mr. Leverton’s partner,” said Richard, miserably. “He was, wasn’t he?”

“He was, but not to the extent of sharing his private letters,” answered Frances, coolly. “You meant your letter to be confidential, didn’t you? You were writing to your father’s old friend, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Richard. He looked up from the floor with a whipped expression in his eyes. “I expect I’ve made a mess of it,” he said, with a note of contrition that caused Miss Bryce to smile. “Now you’ll go and think all sorts of things about Carsdale, and, as I’ve said, Carsdale’s been awfully good to me.”

“I am not used to thinking about Mr. Carsdale,” said Frances. “I merely wished to know why a letter which was my father’s private affair was retained by him. I suppose I am right in concluding that when you wrote that letter you intended to cultivate the friendship which had previously existed between our families--or parents?”

“Yes, yes, oh, yes!” replied Richard, eagerly. “I was awfully cut up to hear of Mr. Leverton’s death--I was, indeed!”

Frances looked at him with a little frown.

“I don’t remember that you wrote to say so,” she said, rather more frigidly than before.

The girl on the sofa uttered a little deprecatory cough, and Richard who kept eyeing her as hunted animals eye a possible way of escape, saw a spot of colour light up on the pale cheek which was next to him. He himself felt uncomfortably hot. But the plain-tongued young lady entrenched at the desk behind her books and papers looked as cool and as imperturbable as ever.

“No!” said Richard, very humbly. “I didn’t. I--meant to. And then----”

“And then, what with one thing or another, you forgot,” said Frances, interrupting him. “All right, Mr. Shrewsbury, it is no matter. But now that you are here, will you be kind enough to take a message from me to your friend, Mr. John Carsdale?”

“Certainly!” said Richard, with great eagerness. “Of course I will.”

Frances smiled at his impetuousness.

“Then tell Mr. Carsdale,” she said, watching her visitor closely, “that I am quite aware from you of the circumstances under which he opened and retained your letter to my father. Tell him, further, that if I ever catch him dealing with any correspondence that comes to Abbotsbury House in my father’s name, I will make London too hot to hold him! Can you remember all that, Mr. Shrewsbury?”

Richard’s face had flushed to a deeper red--he felt as if the girl had smacked it.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can remember all that, and, as I said I would, I’ll carry the message. But--I’m sure Carsdale acted with good intentions.”

“Good intentions to himself,” said Frances. “I gather that you’re a wealthy young man, Mr. Shrewsbury.”

“I have a good deal of money,” answered Richard, modestly.

“Quite so. So that if that letter of yours had been delivered to me, as it ought to have been, I might have had a profitable client,” continued Frances. “Carsdale robbed me of you.”

Richard stared and started. He glanced at the business-like looking desk, and Miss Leverton waved her hand over it.

“I still carry on my father’s concerns,” she said. “I should have been glad to have you for a client. But that’s Carsdale all over--I like you for standing up for him, but you can’t expect me to forgive him for robbing me of possible and profitable business. And I’ll make him smart for it--I can, easily!--if he plays any more tricks on me of that sort.”

Richard began to fidget with his hat and cane.

“I--I didn’t know,” he said lamely. “If I had known----”

“Of course you didn’t know,” interrupted Frances. She turned to her papers, and then held out her hand. “Well, good day,” she said. “I’m obliged to you for clearing up the matter of the letter.”

Richard took the firm, cool hand and dropped it in sheer fright.

“I--I--mayn’t I call again?” he asked desperately.

“Why should you call again?” said Frances, looking up. “Carsdale’s got your business.”

“I wasn’t thinking of business,” said Richard, stoutly.

“Perhaps Mr. Shrewsbury would like to call on Sunday--when you don’t do any business, Frank,” suggested Miss Bryce, with a smile at Richard.

“Yes, oh, yes, thanks!” said Richard, with great eagerness. “Mayn’t I?”

Miss Leverton bent over her letter.

“Well, Sunday afternoon, then,” she murmured.

Then Richard somehow got himself out, and when he had fairly gone, Miss Bryce spoke.

“Frank!” she said. “You treated that poor boy abominably!”

“Bosh!” retorted Miss Leverton. “It will do him good. He won’t get honest, plain speech from Carsdale or from that horrible woman down there at Abbotsbury House!”

“You treated him abominably,” repeated Miss Bryce. “And--he felt it. And why? Because, my dear, the young man is in the way to fall in love with you! I saw it--and I’m never mistaken!”