There was not a trace of unhappiness on the girl’s face next morning when she brought in Mrs. Benton’s breakfast tray. “‘Oh, grandmother, what great big eyes you’ve got!’” she said.
“The better to see through you, my dear!”
Mrs. Benton’s smile faded as Leila went out. Could she live without Leila? No, that wasn’t the question! Could Leila really live with an old woman hanging like a millstone about her neck? From her wallet she removed a slip of paper with some notes copied from the Registry of Social Services.
Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Incorporated. Coverdale, Westchester, New York.
A home for aged women of good breeding and refinement who have fallen into adverse circumstances. Apply in person to the supt. For women of 65 years or over. Adm. $500; transfer of property if not willed to relatives. Visiting three times a week.
“Sounds very nice,” she declared resolutely. But her sight blurred as she looked around the sunny little room. Could she bear to leave it? “Where’s your nerve, Leila Wadsworth?” she murmured, dashing her eyes. “Be a sport.”
Mr. Wallace Gobbet, after an excellent luncheon, sat smoking in the bay window of the old Wadsworth house overlooking the East River. He had sat there comfortably most of the time for eighteen years. In fact, his two daughters had been born upstairs. He could see them now, playing tennis on the lawn with Gosford and Ashley, his two secretaries. A swell place, the only one of its kind left, now that the section was becoming fashionable and huge apartments were going up all along the water front. No reason why he shouldn’t live there indefinitely. Next summer maybe he could wangle a motor launch.
The desk telephone buzzed and he reached over. “Hello, Carson. Everything all right?”
“Okay, Mr. Gobbet,” answered the assistant superintendent at Coverdale. “I just thought I’d let you know we’ve had a new application—a Mrs. Benton.”
“But we’re full up!”
“All the same, I’m shooting her in to see you this afternoon. She’s Eben Wadsworth’s daughter.”
A prolonged pause followed.
“But I thought she’d disappeared years ago!” protested Gobbet.
“She was living in Europe for a long time, but now she’s back again, completely busted. Naturally, she thought of us.”
“Naturally! Hold on a minute while I think.”
What had possessed Carson to send the old girl in there? They’d have to make room for her in Westchester somehow.
“What’s she like?” he asked finally.
“Very much the lady. In fact, it was quite a shock to learn that she was down and out.”
“Did you explain to her about our conditions? The five-hundred-dollar admission fee and assignment of property?”
“Yes. She’s only got two hundred and fifty. I thought you might want to waive it, under the circumstances.”
“How soon will she be here?”
“Within an hour probably. I hope I did the right thing?”
“I suppose so,” grunted Gobbet. He pressed a button. “Tell Mr. Gosford I’m sorry to have to interrupt his game, but I must see him immediately,” he said to the maidservant.
It was four o’clock, she had had no lunch and, after her long trip to Westchester, Mrs. Benton was feeling very tired. The cross-town bus had deposited her in a little street, hardly more than a cul-de-sac, in what seemed a totally unfamiliar part of the city. Strange that it should be marked “Wadsworth Place.” At the end of it she stopped before a double iron gate over which hung a large sign Home for Aged Gentlewomen, Inc. Her heart fluttered. Surely it was the same gate through which, during all her early years, old Pompey had driven her in the C-spring victoria! She turned the handle of the green door beside it, peeked through and gave a little cry of joy. Nothing was changed. Even the cedar of Lebanon was still there. Time had turned back for her in its flight. How large the lawn seemed—almost a whole block! And there was one of the old ladies sitting on a bench. A very nice-looking old lady. What a lovely place for them to live, where all day long they could rest under the trees and watch the traffic on the river.
A maid led her down the familiar tessellated-marble hall to her father’s library, where Mr. Gobbet, pinkly bald, well fleshed, with cold gray eyes, was waiting.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Benton,” said he. “I am happy to tell you that I have already arranged for your admission to Coverdale and for the waiving of the customary fee.”
“How kind of you! But, couldn’t I stay here in the house where I was born?”
Mr. Gobbet shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that is impossible. You’ll really be much happier in the country. You appreciate the fact that you are rather lucky, Mrs. Benton? We are, in fact, full in both places. A special dispensation has been extended in your case.”
“I am very grateful.”
Mr. Gobbet waved his cigar in deprecation. “Your father left us a considerable bequest! I understand that you filled out a complete questionnaire at Coverdale this morning. There’s only one other little formality, which can be attended to right now.... Come in, Mr. Gosford. This is Mrs. Benton. Have you prepared her agreement?”
Mr. Gosford, a husky, white-flanneled youth destined for one of the Misses Gobbet, handed his chief a bundle of typewritten sheets.
“It’s all ready for signature. I’ll take her acknowledgment.”
Mr. Gobbet spread the paper on the desk. “Sign here, please.”
“What is it that I am to sign?”
“Just an assignment of property. If you had any, of course you couldn’t be admitted.”
Through the window Grandma could see a shiny limousine being backed out of the stable by a liveried chauffeur.
“Shouldn’t I—read it first?” she hesitated.
“If you care to do so,” returned Mr. Gobbet stiffly. “However, it’s the merest formality.”
But Grandma’s daemon had stepped to her side. She recalled how she had once signed a paper without examining it for Joshua Benton, her former husband, and what the consequences had been.
“I think, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take it away and read it after I’m rested. I’ve had a rather fatiguing day.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Gobbet in a tone of disapproval. “As you deem best.” He rang. “Tell Judson to bring round the car,” he ordered.... “Good afternoon, Mrs. Benton.”
“Dey’s a lady askin’ fo’ you, Mr. Tutt.” Mandy, exhausted with climbing the steep flight, leaned against the library doorpost. “An old lady. She say how she know you long time ago.”
The lawyer, comfortably elongated in his sway-backed rocker before the fire, paused in the act of draining a glass of Burgundy.
“What’s her name?”
“Mis’ Joshua Benton.”
“Don’t know any such person. What does she look like?”
“Jes’ lak’ a flower! She say you knew her father—a Mr. Eben Wadsworth.”
Mr. Tutt straightened his long legs and put down his glass.
“Eben Wadsworth? Send her up at once!”
The courteous old gentleman who greeted Mrs. Benton on the landing was not the Ephraim Tutt whom she recalled as a clerk in Judge Fernald’s office. That Mr. Tutt had been a young man with black wavy