Читать книгу The Inevitable Millionaires - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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The brothers left their abode at Hampstead within five minutes of their accustomed time on the following morning. They carried out their usual programme of progression, but it was obvious that their serenity had been disturbed. As they entered the Park, George Henry spoke the first word which had passed between them.

"Mrs. Hassall," he observed, taking off his hat for a moment as though to cool his forehead, "is a very unreasonable woman."

"Singularly so," Stephen agreed. "I really never suspected that she was possessed of so violent a temper."

"Your reference to the pension was opportune," George Henry continued.

"Opportune but tardy," Stephen assented. "Perhaps if I had commenced with a reference to the pension, the interview would have been less stormy."

George Henry was swinging his umbrella a little as he walked. Somehow or other, even the Park seemed different this morning. Perhaps his share in the encounter with Mrs. Hassall had stimulated him. At any rate, he was filled with a sense of adventure. It was as though a border of flowers had grown up in the night on either side of that straight black line that led from Hampstead to Basinghall Street, and from Basinghall Street to Hampstead.

"If Mrs. Hassall has made up her mind to leave this afternoon, Stephen," he said, "have you any suggestion to make as to our movements? We can scarcely trust ourselves alone in the house with such an inexperienced maid as Ellen."

Stephen shook his head.

"That is out of the question," he declared. "We must not forget that our chief concern now must be to arrange for a considerable increase of our daily expenditure. It is in my mind to inquire about furnished suites of rooms, including attendance, in the West End."

George Henry moistened his lips and swung his umbrella once more.

"That sounds expensive," he remarked hopefully.

"I believe that such suites are very expensive indeed," Stephen assented. "We shall have to accustom ourselves, also, to the services of a manservant."

"And of whom do you propose to make these inquiries?" George Henry asked.

"Of Harold," Stephen said firmly. "There is no need to go outside the family. Harold, as you know, has been brought up in a world which is entirely strange to us. Our sister Amelia has lived amongst fashionable people ever since her marriage. Harold was sent to Eton, and there is no doubt that he shares his mother's tastes. You see, for instance, how naturally he fits into his surroundings at such a place as the 'Milan'. He wears the right sort of clothes and seems entirely at home there. I think that he will be able to give us all the information that we desire."

The brothers completed their journey without further reference to the absorbing subject of the moment. For an hour after they arrived at the office, they proceeded through the usual routine of dealing with their correspondence and with pressing matters on which their decision was necessary for the wheels of this money-making firm to run smoothly. As soon, however, as they reached a pause, Stephen turned to the clerk who had been taking his instructions.

"Will you send Mr. Harold in, if you please," he directed.

The message reached Harold in a moment of gloom. His own correspondence had been unsatisfactory in the extreme—and monotonous. There seemed to exist, on the part of certain tradespeople in the West End, a unanimous and poignant desire for some sort of settlement, on his part, of their accounts. His tailor, in particular, seemed both hurt and aggrieved by Harold's indifference to his continual applications. Then Miss Whitney had telephoned, announcing herself engaged for luncheon and, in reply to his complaints, had told him to run away and play. It was altogether a rotten world. He followed the clerk into the private office, full of forebodings, but adopting, for the moment, an attitude of cynical depression. After all, perhaps something might be done in the way of blackmail.

"Harold," his Uncle Stephen began, "there are a couple of matters concerning which we should like to consult you."

Harold was startled out of his assumed composure.

"Consult me," he repeated a little feebly.

"Take a chair," Stephen enjoined.

Harold's spirits commenced to rise. He had never before been invited to sit down in his uncles' presence.

"In the first place," Stephen continued, "we desire the address and an introduction to a firm of first-class London tailors."

Harold pinched his leg violently and swallowed. He said nothing.

"We also desire a similar introduction to a hosier, accustomed to supply fashionable details of men's clothing," Stephen proceeded. "And, finally, your Uncle George Henry and I have decided to leave Hampstead and come to live in the West End. We thought of taking a furnished suite or flat with attendance. You could, perhaps, suggest a desirable locality."

Both these martinets, of whom he had always stood in secret awe, were waiting upon his words, almost deferentially. Harold, who had entered the room in fear and trembling, felt his hands creeping towards his trouser pockets. A new vista of prosperity, including the termination of all his financial troubles, was dawning upon him.

"My tailors are the people for you," he declared almost eagerly. "Hyslop and Hyslop, in Savile Row. Absolutely the cut. No one else in it. I'll take you there. And, as for the hosier," he added, remembering another offensive document in his pocket, "there is only one place—Borrodaile's in Bond Street. Better let me run you round there."

"We will visit these establishments with you this afternoon," Stephen decided.

It was almost too good to be true!

"Look here," Harold warned them, "you understand, of course, that you won't be able to buy clothes at the prices you pay to that man Hogge, in Cheapside, or collars and shirts at Hope Brothers' prices."

"We understand that perfectly," Stephen assented. "There is no harm in telling you, Harold, that it is our intention, your Uncle George Henry's intention and my own, to increase our yearly expenditure. We are leaving Hampstead at once. In fact, I may say that we have already left it."

"Ye gods!" Harold gasped. "What about Mrs. Hassall?"

"We have pensioned her," was the amazing reply.

"Your Uncle Stephen and I have decided," George Henry explained, "that we have developed a certain tendency towards living in what one might call a rut."

"A rut! Precisely! A rut!" Stephen echoed.

"We are, accordingly," George Henry continued, "about to alter our method of living."

"Capital!" Harold exclaimed. "If you want showing round a bit on the Q.T.," he added confidentially, this vision of a new Eldorado expanding before his eyes, "I can arrange it for you. There isn't much goes on in town I don't know something about."

"It would be more becoming at your age, Harold," Stephen intervened coldly, "if you thought a little more about your work here and a little less about such matters. With your uncle and myself it is different. We are in a position to retire at any moment, should we care to do so. You still have your way to make in the world."

"Quite so," the young man assented, his hopes a little dashed.

"I mentioned a service flat a moment ago," Stephen proceeded.

"Why not the 'Milan'?" Harold suggested. "You seem to have taken a fancy to the place. You can move into a little suite there this afternoon, if you want to. All slap up-to-date and everything. And you can have your meals served in your private apartments, or visit the restaurant when you like."

Stephen and George Henry exchanged glances.

"The idea appears to me to be excellent," George Henry pronounced. "The place is bright and cheerful, and I have no doubt that the prices will be satisfactory."

"We shall be lunching there to-day, and will take the opportunity of interviewing the manager," Stephen assented. "That will do, Harold. We will make an appointment with you later on."

Harold left the office a little dazed but feeling, somehow, that there was some hope left in the world. George Henry at once took down his bowler hat from the peg, glanced at his watch, and turned to his brother.

"It is time for me to go to Mincing Lane, Stephen," he announced. "I shall be back at half-past twelve. You have not forgotten, I suppose, that Miss Whitney spoke of calling to see you this morning."

Stephen moved a little uneasily in his chair.

"No, I had not forgotten, George Henry," he replied. "I suppose——"

His brother waited patiently. Stephen, however, was momentarily dumb.

"You were thinking of Hepplethwaite's indigo?"

Stephen stroked his chin thoughtfully. His forehead was slightly puckered and his eyes seemed more than ordinarily blue. His fingers were playing a tattoo upon the blotting-pad. There were certain rare indications of self-consciousness about his demeanour.

"To tell you the truth," he explained, a little lamely, "I was wondering whether, if Miss Whitney should happen to call, it would not be as well if you were here."

George Henry shook his head. There had already been visions in his mind of the sensation which such a visit would cause in the office.

"Nothing," he pointed out, "must interfere with my visit to the Mincing Lane warehouses this morning. There are several matters of importance awaiting my arrival."

"You are quite right," Stephen agreed resignedly. "If it is possible, however, for you to return a little earlier than usual, I should be glad."

"I will certainly do so," George Henry promised, with the ghost of a smile upon his lips.

Stephen's mingled fears and hopes were soon realized. Watched across the strip of dusty floor which lay between the outer swing doors and the office by a score of gaping young men, ushered into the sanctum of the partners by a dumb-stricken clerk, diffusing about her, in that stern commercial atmosphere, little wafts of delicate and voluptuous femininity, Miss Whitney made her appearance, scarcely a quarter of an hour after George Henry's departure. Stephen, studiously avoiding his subordinate's almost agonized stare, bowed and motioned his visitor into a vacant easy chair.

"What a dear, ducky place!" the young lady exclaimed, as she threw herself back into its depths, crossing her legs and displaying a quality and quantity of silk-clad limb which sent the middle-aged cashier, gasping, from the room. "So this is where you sit and make all that money! Where is the other Mr. Underwood?"

"My brother," Stephen explained, "has gone to pay his usual morning visit to our warehouses in Mincing Lane. He will be back before long."

"I'm not missing him," Miss Whitney declared cheerfully, drawing up her chair and leaning across the desk. "We can manage without him, can't we, Mr. Stephen?"

"Up to a certain point, yes," was the somewhat awkward rejoinder.

She laughed at him softly and leaned a little nearer. A gleam of sunlight beautified the really rich gold of her hair. A little waft of most unusual and very seductive perfume floated across the dust-hung atmosphere.

"You are so queer, you two," she murmured. "Do you do nothing apart? Have you no separate lives at all?"

"None," Stephen answered simply. "You see, we were at school together, we came into business together, and, since my father's death, we have kept house together."

She was a little puzzled at his complete unself-consciousness.

"You have neither of you ever been married?"

"Certainly not," Stephen replied. "And we are much too old now," he added, "to contemplate such a thing."

"Men are never old," she whispered.

Stephen looked around. The room seemed to be getting closer and closer, and he decided that he must consult George Henry about a new ventilator.

"You have brought some papers with you," he inquired, "referring to the matter we were discussing yesterday?"

Miss Whitney opened her bag and drew out a typewritten agreement.

"I thought it simplest to put it in this form," she said, a little apologetically. "It is, of course, only for your consideration."

Stephen adjusted his gold eyeglass, and, with his forefinger following the lines, read it through word by word. Then he touched the bell and gave a message to the elderly clerk who answered it.

"The agreement seems to me to be in order," he said, "but it is our custom, my brother's and mine, never to sign anything in the shape of a legal document without legal advice. Our solicitor is in the outer office, going through an account with the cashier."

"You mean that you are going to advance the money?" she exclaimed, a little breathlessly.

"We have decided," Stephen replied, "provided no unexpected difficulties arise, to make the investment."

She looked at him with a faintly puzzled air in her warm brown eyes, as though wondering at his self-containment. Then the door opened, and exactly the type of lawyer whom the brothers Underwood might have been expected to employ made his appearance. Stephen rose to his feet.

"Mr. Jardine," he said, "allow me to present you to Miss Whitney."

Mr. Jardine bowed. It was one of the weak moments of a starch-fed life. He was unable to conceal his surprise. He was even a little confused.

"Be so good," Stephen continued, "as to look through this document and tell me whether, from a legal point of view, it is in order. Pray be seated."

The lawyer read the document through from beginning to end. When he had finished, he held it before his face for a moment. Afterwards he was able to meet his client's inquiring gaze with a moderate amount of composure.

"Legally speaking," he pronounced, in melancholy tones, "the document is in order."

"Be so good as to take it, then," Stephen directed. "Prepare a copy for Miss Whitney and one for myself. You will wait upon Miss Whitney according to her convenience, with a cheque for six thousand pounds, and obtain her signature."

"The matter shall be attended to," the lawyer promised, making vague bows and leaving the room like a man in a trance.

Miss Whitney leaned across the table and laid her fingers upon Stephen's hand.

"How can I thank you!" she whispered, with a world of appeal and promise in her grateful glance.

"On the contrary," he replied, "it is we who owe you thanks—my brother and I. We were, in fact, looking for an investment of the sort which I feel sure this will turn out to be."

She was a little puzzled at his demeanour. In the whole of her experience, which had been considerable, she had never met anything like it before.

"You will take me out to lunch, won't you?" she begged. "We must have a little celebration—just we two."

There was one strange moment, during which Stephen found himself thinking that it would be very pleasant indeed to take Miss Whitney out to a tête-à-tête lunch. And then he was himself again.

"My brother will return in a few minutes," he said. "We always lunch together. It will give us great pleasure to have you as our guest."

Blanche Whitney threw herself back in her chair and laughed. She laughed so naturally and so easily that the tears came into her eyes. Then she rose to her feet, came round to his side and looked down at him.

"Mayn't I give you a kiss?" she asked.

"For God's sake, no!" he stammered in terror. "Forgive me, my dear Miss Whitney, do you realize where we are—and—and——"

"Oh, I forgot we were in your stuffy old office!" she exclaimed. "Never mind, it will keep."

Stephen produced a carefully marked cambric handkerchief, on which ten drops of lavender water had been sprinkled, and dabbed his forehead.

"What will keep?" he gasped.

"The kiss, of course," she answered. "Do you know, I believe you are shy."

He turned towards the door with the air of one prepared to welcome a deliverer. George Henry, after a careful knock, which his brother much resented, entered. The latter coughed.

"Miss Whitney and I have arranged that little matter, George Henry," he announced. "If you are agreeable, she has been kind enough to promise us the pleasure of her company at luncheon."

"That will be very pleasant," George Henry declared brightly. "I will send for a taxicab."

"Miss Whitney, then, will excuse us for a moment," Stephen said, rising to his feet.

They both left the room; they both returned in about five minutes, with their hands spotless, their hair neatly brushed, their faces shining.

"The taxicab is at the door," Stephen announced.

Miss Whitney rose to her feet. She was feeling a little hysterical.

"I think," she said, "that I should like to be a partner in your firm."