The Card, page 15
Thenceforward the progress of the Thrift Club had been unruffled. Denry waxed amazingly in importance. His mule died. He dared not buy a proper horse and dogcart, because he dared not bring such an equipage to the front door of his mother’s four-and-sixpenny cottage. So he had taken to cabs. In all exterior magnificence and lavishness he equalled even the great Harold Etches, of whom he had once been afraid; and like Etches he became a famous habitué of Llandudno pier. But whereas Etches lived with his wife in a superb house at Bleakridge, Denry lived with his mother in a ridiculous cottage in ridiculous Brougham Street. He had a regiment of acquaintances and he accepted a lot of hospitality, but he could not return it at Brougham Street. His greatness fizzled into nothing in Brougham Street. It stopped short and sharp at the corner of St Luke’s Square, where he left his cabs. He could do nothing with his mother. If she was not still going out as a sempstress the reason was, not that she was not ready to go out, but that her old clients had ceased to send for her. And could they be blamed for not employing at three shillings a day the mother of a young man who wallowed in thousands sterling? Denry had essayed over and over again to instil reason into his mother, and he had invariably failed. She was too independent, too profoundly rooted in her habits; and her character had more force than his. Of course, he might have left her and set up a suitably gorgeous house of his own.
But he would not.
In fact, they were a remarkable pair.
On this eve of her birthday he had meant to cajole her into some step, to win her by an appeal, basing his argument on her indisposition. But he was being beaten off once more. The truth was that a cajoling, caressing tone could not be long employed towards Mrs Machin. She was not persuasive herself, nor favourable to persuasiveness in others.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘if you’re making two thousand a year, ye can spend it or save it as ye like, though ye’d better save it. Ye never know what may happen in these days. There was a man dropped half-a-crown down a grid opposite only the day before yesterday.’
Denry laughed.
‘Ay!’ she said; ‘ye can laugh.’
‘There’s no doubt about one thing,’ he said, ‘you ought to be in bed. You ought to stay in bed for two or three days at least.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And who’s going to look after the house while I’m moping between blankets?’
‘You can have Rose Chudd in,’ he said.
‘No,’ said she. ‘I’m not going to have any woman rummaging about my house, and me in bed.’
‘You know perfectly well she’s been practically starving since her husband died, and as she’s going out charing, why can’t you have her and put a bit of bread into her mouth?’
‘Because I won’t have her! Neither her nor any one. There’s naught to prevent you giving her some o’ your two thousand a year if you’ve a mind. But I see no reason for my house being turned upside down by her, even if I have got a bit of a cold.’
‘You’re an unreasonable old woman,’ said Denry.
‘Happen I am!’ said she. ‘There can’t be two wise ones in a family. But I’m not going to give up this cottage, and as long as I am standing on my feet I’m not going to pay any one for doing what I can do better myself.’ A pause. ‘And so you needn’t think it! You can’t come round me with a fur mantle.’ She retired to rest. On the following morning he was very glum.
‘You needn’t be so glum,’ she said.
But she was rather pleased at his glumness. For in him glumness was a sign that he recognized defeat.
II
The next episode between them was curiously brief. Denry had influenza. He said that naturally he had caught hers.
He went to bed and stayed there. She nursed him all day, and grew angry in a vain attempt to force him to eat. Towards night he tossed furiously on the little bed in the little bedroom, complaining of fearful headaches. She remained by his side most of the night. In the morning he was easier. Neither of them mentioned the word ‘doctor’. She spent the day largely on the stairs. Once more towards night he grew worse, and she remained most of the second night by his side.
In the sinister winter dawn Denry murmured in a feeble tone:
‘Mother, you’d better send for him.’
‘Doctor?’ she said. And secretly she thought that she had better send for the doctor, and that there must be after all some difference between influenza and a cold.
‘No,’ said Denry; ‘send for young Lawton.’
‘Young Lawton!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you want young Lawton to come here for?’
‘I haven’t made my will,’ Denry answered.
‘Pooh!’ she retorted.
Nevertheless she was the least bit in the world frightened. And she sent for Dr Stirling, the aged Harrop’s Scotch partner.
Dr Stirling, who was full-bodied and left little space for anybody else in the tiny, shabby bedroom of the man with four thousand a year, gazed at Mrs Machin, and he gazed also at Denry.
‘Ye must go to bed this minute,’ said he.
‘But he’s in bed,’ cried Mrs Machin.
‘I mean yerself,’ said Dr Stirling.
She was very nearly at the end of her resources. And the proof was that she had no strength left to fight Dr Stirling. She did go to bed. And shortly afterwards Denry got up. And a little later, Rose Chudd, that prim and efficient young widow from lower down the street, came into the house and controlled it as if it had been her own. Mrs Machin, whose constitution was hardy, arose in about a week, cured, and duly dismissed Rose with wages and without thanks. But Rose had been. Like the Signal’s burglars, she had ‘effected an entrance’. And the house had not been turned upside down. Mrs Machin, though she tried, could not find fault with the result of Rose’s uncontrolled activities.
III
One morning – and not very long afterwards, in such wise did Fate seem to favour the young at the expense of the old – Mrs Machin received two letters which alarmed and disgusted her. One was from her landlord, announcing that he had sold the house in which she lived to a Mr Wilbraham of London, and that in future she must pay the rent to the said Mr Wilbraham or his legal representatives. The other was from a firm of London solicitors announcing that their client, Mr Wilbraham, had bought the house, and that the rent must be paid to their agent, whom they would name later.
Mrs Machin gave vent to her emotion in her customary manner: ‘Bless us!’
And she showed the impudent letters to Denry.
‘Oh!’ said Denry. ‘So he has bought them, has he? I heard he was going to.’
‘Them?’ exclaimed Mrs Machin. ‘What else has he bought?’
‘I expect he’s bought all the five – this and the four below, as far as Downes’s. I expect you’ll find that the other four have had notices just like these. You know all this row used to belong to the Wilbrahams. You surely must remember that, mother?’
‘Is he one of the Wilbrahams of Hillport, then?’
‘Yes, of course he is.’
‘I thought the last of ’em was Cecil, and when he’d beggared himself here he went to Australia and died of drink. That’s what I always heard. We always used to say as there wasn’t a Wilbraham left.’
‘He did go to Australia, but he didn’t die of drink. He disappeared, and when he’d made a fortune he turned up again in Sydney, so it seems. I heard he’s thinking of coming back here to settle. Anyhow, he’s buying up a lot of the Wilbraham property. I should have thought you’d have heard of it. Why, lots of people have been talking about it.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Machin, ‘I don’t like it.’
She objected to a law which permitted a landlord to sell a house over the head of a tenant who had occupied it for more than thirty years. In the course of the morning she discovered that Denry was right – the other tenants had received notices exactly similar to hers.
Two days later Denry arrived home for tea with a most surprising article of news. Mr Cecil Wilbraham had been down to Bursley from London, and had visited him, Denry. Mr Cecil Wilbraham’s local information was evidently quite out of date, for he had imagined Denry to be a rent-collector and estate agent, whereas the fact was that Denry had abandoned this minor vocation years ago. His desire had been that Denry should collect his rents and watch over his growing interests in the district.
‘So what did you tell him?’ asked Mrs Machin.
‘I told him I’d do it,’ said Denry.
‘Why?’
‘I thought it might be safer for you,’ said Denry, with a certain emphasis. ‘And, besides, it looked as if it might be a bit of a lark. He’s a very peculiar chap.’
‘Peculiar?’
‘For one thing, he’s got the largest moustaches of any man I ever saw. And there’s something up with his left eye. And then I think he’s a bit mad.’
‘Mad?’
‘Well, touched. He’s got a notion about building a funny sort of a house for himself on a plot of land at Bleakridge. It appears he’s fond of living alone, and he’s collected all kinds of dodges for doing without servants and still being comfortable.’
‘Ay! But he’s right there!’ breathed Mrs Machin in deep sympathy. As she said about once a week, ‘She never could abide the idea of servants.’ ‘He’s not married, then?’ she added.
‘He told me he’d been a widower three times, but he’d never had any children,’ said Denry.
‘Bless us!’ murmured Mrs Machin.
Denry was the one person in the town who enjoyed the acquaintance and the confidence of the thrice-widowed stranger with long moustaches. He had descended without notice on Bursley, seen Denry (at the branch office of the Thrift Club), and then departed. It was understood that later he would permanently settle in the district. Then the wonderful house began to rise on the plot of land at Bleakridge. Denry had general charge of it, but always subject to erratic and autocratic instructions from London. Thanks to Denry, who, since the historic episode at Llandudno, had remained very friendly with the Cotterill family, Mr Cotterill had the job of building the house; the plans came from London. And though Mr Cecil Wilbraham proved to be exceedingly watchful against any form of imposition, the job was a remunerative one for Mr Cotterill, who talked a great deal about the originality of the residence. The town judged of the wealth and importance of Mr Cecil Wilbraham by the fact that a person so wealthy and important as Denry should be content to act as his agent. But then the Wilbrahams had been magnates in the Bursley region for generations, up till the final Wilbraham smash in the late seventies. The town hungered to see those huge moustaches and that peculiar eye. In addition to Denry, only one person had seen the madman, and that person was Nellie Cotterill, who had been viewing the half-built house with Denry one Sunday morning when the madman had most astonishingly arrived upon the scene, and after a few minutes vanished. The building of the house strengthened greatly the friendship between Denry and the Cotterills. Yet Denry neither liked Mr Cotterill nor trusted him.
The next incident in these happenings was that Mrs Machin received notice from the London firm to quit her four-and-sixpence-a-week cottage. It seemed to her that not merely Brougham Street, but the world, was coming to an end. She was very angry with Denry for not protecting her more successfully. He was Mr Wilbraham’s agent, he collected the rent, and it was his duty to guard his mother from unpleasantness. She observed, however, that he was remarkably disturbed by the notice, and he assured her that Mr Wilbraham had not consulted him in the matter at all. He wrote a letter to London, which she signed, demanding the reason of this absurd notice flung at an ancient and perfect tenant. The reply was that Mr Wilbraham intended to pull the houses down, beginning with Mrs Machin’s, and rebuild.
‘Pooh!’ said Denry. ‘Don’t you worry your head, mother; I shall arrange it. He’ll be down here soon to see his new house – it’s practically finished, and the furniture is coming in – and I’ll just talk to him.’
But Mr Wilbraham did not come, the explanation doubtless being that he was mad. On the other hand, fresh notices came with amazing frequency. Mrs Machin just handed them over to Denry. And then Denry received a telegram to say that Mr Wilbraham would be at his new house that night and wished to see Denry there. Unfortunately, on the same day, by the afternoon post, while Denry was at his offices, there arrived a sort of supreme and ultimate notice from London to Mrs Machin, and it was on blue paper. It stated, baldly, that as Mrs Machin had failed to comply with all the previous notices, had, indeed, ignored them, she and her goods would now be ejected into the street, according to the law. It gave her twenty-four hours to flit. Never had a respectable dame been so insulted as Mrs Machin was insulted by that notice. The prospect of camping out in Brougham Street confronted her. When Denry reached home that evening, Mrs Machin, as the phrase is, ‘gave it him’.
Denry admitted frankly that he was nonplussed, staggered, and outraged. But the thing was simply another proof of Mr Wilbraham’s madness. After tea he decided that his mother must put on her best clothes, and go up with him to see Mr Wilbraham and firmly expostulate – in fact, they would arrange the situation between them; and if Mr Wilbraham was obstinate they would defy Mr Wilbraham. Denry explained to his mother that an Englishwoman’s cottage was her castle, that a landlord’s minions had no right to force an entrance, and that the one thing that Mr Wilbraham could do was to begin unbuilding the cottage from the top outside … And he would like to see Mr Wilbraham try it on!
So the sealskin mantle (for it was spring again) went up with Denry to Bleakridge.
IV
The moon shone in the chill night. The house stood back from Trafalgar Road in the moonlight – a squarish block of a building.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Machin, ‘it isn’t so large.’
‘No! He didn’t want it large. He only wanted it large enough,’ said Denry, and pushed a button to the right of the front door. There was no reply, though they heard the ringing of the bell inside. They waited. Mrs Machin was very nervous, but thanks to her sealskin mantle she was not cold.
‘This is a funny doorstep,’ she remarked, to kill time.
‘It’s of marble,’ said Denry.
‘What’s that for?’ asked his mother.
‘So much easier to keep clean,’ said Denry.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Machin, ‘it’s pretty dirty now, anyway.’
It was.
‘Quite simple to clean,’ said Denry, bending down. ‘You just turn this tap at the side. You see, it’s so arranged that it sends a flat jet along the step. Stand off a second.’
He turned the tap, and the step was washed pure in a moment.
‘How is it that that water steams?’ Mrs Machin demanded.
‘Because it’s hot,’ said Denry. ‘Did you ever know water steam for any other reason?’
‘Hot water outside?’
‘Just as easy to have hot water outside as inside, isn’t it?’ said Denry.
‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs Machin. She was impressed.
‘That’s how everything’s dodged up in this house,’ said Denry. He shut off the water.
And he rang once again. No answer! No illumination within the abode!
‘I’ll tell you what I shall do,’ said Denry at length. ‘I shall let myself in. I’ve got a key of the back door.’
‘Are you sure it’s all right?’
‘I don’t care if it isn’t all right,’ said Denry, defiantly. ‘He asked me to be up here, and he ought to be here to meet me. I’m not going to stand any nonsense from anybody.’
In they went, having skirted round the walls of the house.
Denry closed the door, pushed a switch, and the electric light shone. Electric light was then quite a novelty in Bursley. Mrs Machin had never seen it in action. She had to admit that it was less complicated than oil-lamps. In the kitchen the electric light blazed upon walls tiled in grey and a floor tiled in black and white. There was a gas range and a marble slopstone with two taps. The woodwork was dark. Earthenware saucepans stood on a shelf. The cupboards were full of gear chiefly in earthenware. Denry began to exhibit to his mother a tank provided with ledges and shelves and grooves, in which he said that everything except knives could be washed and dried automatically.
‘Hadn’t you better go and find your Mr Wilbraham?’ she interrupted.
‘So I had,’ said Denry; ‘I was forgetting him.’
She heard him wandering over the house and calling in divers tones upon Mr Wilbraham. But she heard no other voice. Meanwhile she examined the kitchen in detail, appreciating some of its devices and failing to comprehend others.
‘I expect he’s missed the train,’ said Denry, coming back. ‘Anyhow, he isn’t here. I may as well show you the rest of the house now.’
He led her into the hall, which was radiantly lighted.
‘It’s quite warm here,’ said Mrs Machin.
‘The whole house is heated by steam,’ said Denry. ‘No fireplaces.’
‘No fireplaces!’
‘No! No fireplaces. No grates to polish, ashes to carry down, coals to carry up, mantelpieces to dust, fire-irons to clean, fenders to polish, chimneys to sweep.’
‘And suppose he wants a bit of fire all of a sudden in summer?’
‘Gas stove in every room for emergencies,’ said Denry.
