Chapter V: Part 5

_You and I are plainly of different schools. You believe in the
snaffle, and I believe in the curb. I do not suggest that you
are wrong or argue that I am right, but what I have I will
hold—in my own way. Call me hard, if you please, and say that I
gather where I have not strawed. My withers are unwrung. I am of
the other school. While I am Lord of the Manor, I will sell none
of my land nor will I alter my ways. Horses are meant to be
ridden, and, while I am in the saddle, I will ride Sundial on
the curb._

_I say ‘while I am in the saddle.’_

_Your letter was unusual enough to interest anyone. Coming from
you, it interested me very much. I therefore sent for Mr. John,
the pupil to my late agent, and, as I expected, he was able to
tell me as much as I wanted to know. I have requested him,
should you desire it, so far as he can, to do you the same
office. Ask him, and he will tell you what manner of man I am._

_You will wonder why I should take pains to put such information
at your disposal. It is because I am willing to strike a bargain
with you._

_If you will become my wife, I will give to you absolutely all
my title-deeds (including, of course, those of the Manor House)
and assign to you every manorial right that I possess. In a
word, I will make you the Lady of the Manor._

_Yours faithfully,_
_CHARLES PENDRAGON._

“Why, the man’s mad,” cried Christopher. “Stark, staring. He’s got his dates wrong. This is the sort of deal they did in the Stone Age.”

“It sounds,” said Audrey, “as though he meant what he said. I suppose, in your innocence, you gave me a pretty good chit.”

“He asked what you were like, and I told him the truth. I never dreamed——”

“Of course you didn’t,” said Audrey. “He took jolly good care of that. I know just what he’s like. He’s a brilliant, _blasé_ Gallio—with a pretty wit. He might have done anything: in point of fact, he’s done nothing. When he plays, he plays high: and whether he wins or loses he doesn’t care—with the result that he usually wins. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about Sundial: he doesn’t care about me: we’re pawns. He’d sell his birthright, not for a mess of pottage, but for a cup of spice. That letter’s typical—because it’s a masterpiece. Think what the man who wrote that could have done as a diplomat.”

“I don’t see that it’s anything wonderful,” said Christopher John. “It’s a piece of damned impertinence, but——”

“Think,” said Audrey. “In effect he says, ‘Your interference was bad form: the only possible excuse for it was a sense of duty too strong to be withstood. Whether you were really so actuated remains to be seen.’”

Christopher shrugged his shoulders.

“You would write,” he said.

“I _had_ to, Christopher. I couldn’t sit still and have everyone so sweet and not raise a finger to help.”

The other sighed.

“Well, it’s done now,” he said. “I suppose you won’t let me take it up with the brute.”

“Take what up?” said Audrey.

“This letter, of course.”

“But it’s unexceptionable,” said Audrey. “That’s what’s so clever. He stepped out and met me on my own ground. It may be out of bounds, but I can’t curse him for that. I chose it. . . . Besides, if it comes to that, he may be bluffing: but if I like to call his bluff, I’ll bet he pays. And he stands to lose a bit.”

“_‘Lose’?_” screamed Christopher. “Oh, the girl’s mad. ‘Lose’?”

“It’s a sporting offer,” said Audrey. “You can’t get away from that. And that’s the strongest card in a very strong hand, my friend. If I turn it down——”

“‘If,’” cried Christopher John. “You don’t mean to say you’re even contemplating doing anything else?”

“It’s been done before,” said Audrey. “Lady Godiva was a sport.”

“Yes, but hers was a two-hour stunt. This is a lifer. You can’t chuck away your life so that half a dozen clowns can shove their rotten sheep on to Mesne Holms.”

“They’re not rotten sheep,” said Audrey. “Besides, I mightn’t be chucking it away. I might get to like him very much. You never know. What sort of eyes has he got?”

“Watery ones,” said Christopher. “Looks as if he drank.”

Miss de Lisle frowned.

“How old is he?” she demanded.

“I believe he’s about thirty-five. He’s a proper waster, you know.”

“He would like to hear his mediator, wouldn’t he?”

“I never undertook to plead his cause.”

“You’ve broken his bread,” said Audrey.

“I wish I’d broken his neck,” growled Christopher John.

Audrey threw back her head and fell into silvery laughter. Then she drew out a letter and put it into his hand.

“I think I’ve teased you enough,” she said.

_DEAR MR. PENDRAGON,_

_It is indeed plain that you and I are of different schools. I
should not, for instance, have ‘pumped’ a gentleman who, had he
dreamed of the use to which his information was to be put, would
have seen you dead before he had opened his mouth._

_I refuse your offer because I do not think there is a poor man
in Sundial who would not rather go hungry, with you for lord,
than that I should pay so dear to become his lady._

_One thing more._

_Unless I hear from you by return of post that you will
immediately—_

_(a) reinstate Mr. Warthog,_

_(b) throw open Mesne Holms,_

_(c) let me the Manor House for a term of seven years at a rent
not exceeding twice that which a reputable firm of house-agents
shall consider just,_

_I shall hand a copy of this correspondence to the local Press._

_Yours faithfully,_
_AUDREY DE LISLE._

“D’you think that’ll fix him?” said Audrey.

“It’ll certainly shake him up,” said Christopher John.

The Lord of the Manor replied with commendable dispatch.

_DEAR MISS DE LISLE,_

_I beg that you will include a copy of this letter in the
dossier which you hand to the Press._

_I shall not reinstate Warthog._

_I dismissed him because upon a belated investigation of his
stewardship many things became apparent. Of these I will mention
three only:—_

_(a) he has for three years robbed me right and left:_

_(b) the better to line his pockets, he has consistently
represented me to be a harsh and unconscionable
landlord, to whom money was a god:_

_(c) the respective epidemics of smallpox and
diphtheria, by reports of which he deterred me from
visiting Sundial, never prevailed._

_I have not the power to throw open Mesne Holms. It is common
land, and if grazing fees have been paid for its use, they have
been appropriated by Warthog._

_I will not let you the Manor House, because I propose quite
shortly to reside there myself._

_Yours faithfully,_
_CHARLES PENDRAGON._

So did Audrey de Lisle.

_DEAR CHRISTOPHER JOHN,_

_Thank you very much for your letter. I’m sorry I called you a
‘sweep’ and I’m sorry that I believed all the gossip I heard.
That comes of going outside my nursery rhyme. I won’t do it
again._

_I never knew you were Pendragon till I saw that the Arms on the
archway were the same as those on your ring. I ought to have
realized then that you knew your job, but the dismissal of
Warthog stuck in my throat. It never occurred to me that he was
a rogue._

_Your self-indignation the other evening was priceless. I loved
it. I had to join in, of course, but I didn’t mean all I said._

_Please may I see the Manor House again? Last time I was rather
preoccupied. Will you take me there this evening, and tell me if
I may tell Sundial the truth and say that the Lord of the Manor
will be in his family pew on Sunday morning?_

_AUDREY._

* * * * *

It was the quiet hour.

The sun had just gone down, and the broad terrace was flushed with a rosy pride: the aged giants upon the lawn stood up like gentlemen-at-arms, majestic monuments of silence; the sweet air was breathless. Somewhere a wood-pigeon was chanting the ritual of Peace.

“May I tell Sundial?” said Audrey.

“Yes.”

“And will you be in your pew on Sunday morning?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Audrey.

The Lord of the Manor smiled.

“You made a most excellent Queen. If I had said who I was, it would have cramped your style.”

“You let me sit in your pew, find favour by calling you names, order you about your own business. . . . Why did you do that, Christopher?”

The Lord of the Manor stared at the plumes of the cedars against the blue of the sky.

“You know why,” he said.

There was a silence.

At length—

“The end had to come,” said Audrey: “the end of the fairy-tale. We came for a night and we’ve stayed for nearly a month. It was very nice of you to let it go on so long.”

“If I’d had my way,” said Pendragon, “it would be still running. But the Queen wandered out of the parlour and into the counting-house.”

“A most undignified act,” said Audrey de Lisle. “If she’d stuck to her bread and honey, all would have been well.”

“It wasn’t undignified at all,” said the Lord of the Manor. “It was purely feminine.”

“The truth is,” said Audrey, “you can take a maiden all forlorn and put a crown on her head: but that doesn’t make her a Queen.”

“And a Queen,” said Christopher John, “can put off her crown and call herself over the coals and say the fairy-tale’s over and get into her car and drive out of the nursery rhyme: but that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s a fine lady. ‘She shall have music wherever she goes.’”

Perched upon the broad balustrade, her little hands folded in her lap, Audrey stared upon the flags.

“Why,” she said, “did the Lord of the Manor make the proposal he did? Surely he never thought that I should accept it.”

“There was no reason why you shouldn’t. Sundial means everything to you. I didn’t imagine you’d wire back ‘Every time,’ but I thought you’d negotiate.”

“Christopher!”

“Why not? The offer was honourable—the sort of offer that’s made by a King to a Queen.”

“Perhaps,” said Audrey slowly, “perhaps that’s why I didn’t take it. Being only a maiden all forlorn, my tastes are more simple. Besides, what makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“I’d like you to know,” he said, “that, if you’d negotiated, you would have won hands down. The deeds would have been yours—with nothing to pay.”

“What makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?”

Pendragon stared into the distance with eyes that saw nothing.

“A fool finds out things,” he said, “when a fool’s in love . . . I fell in love with you. But then you know that. I loved you the moment I saw you standing there by the stile. And you were so very nice that, idiotically enough, I began to think that perhaps I meant something. It was great presumption, of course—but I did. I thought perhaps I figured in the nursery rhyme. . . . The trouble was that you were a Queen, while I—well, I wasn’t a King. . . . And then one day you came right down from your throne and kneeled at my feet—that morning, in the courtyard. . . . Well, we both know what happened then. Late as it is, my lady, I beg your pardon. But that’s by the way. The point is, it opened my eyes. It showed me that Sundial _without me_ was still Sundial, but that I _without Sundial_ was less than nothing at all—in a word, that I did _not_ figure in the nursery rhyme.”

Audrey raised her straight eyebrows, and a faint smile played about her beautiful mouth.

“You know,” she said dreamily, “it’s a shame about you.” The man started. “You’re a King really, but you choose to masquerade as a ‘man all tattered and torn.’ One day you find a ‘maiden all forlorn’ and put a crown on her head. Then you’re all upset because you want to kiss her—stay where you are, please—but you can’t do that because she’s a Queen. So you sit all still and gloomy and listen to her railing against the King. Then, having worked her anger against the King up to fever heat, you tell her that you’re the King and try to kiss her. . . . Well, whatever do you expect the poor girl to do?”

“May I move now?”

“Certainly not. Besides, how many times d’you think the man all tattered and torn tried to kiss the maiden all forlorn before she let him do it?”

“Once,” said Pendragon, putting his arms about her and drawing her on to her feet.

As she slid down from the stone—

“I never said you could move,” said Audrey de Lisle.

“You shouldn’t ’ve made me a King,” shouted her squire, and with that he kissed her.

“I wanted you to do that the very first day,” whispered the girl. “But if you had I’d never have stayed at Sundial.” She slid an arm round his neck. “And you say you didn’t figure . . .” She threw up her glorious head and smiled into his eyes. “Why, my blessed, _you made it_. It’s not been a nursery rhyme—it’s been my love-story.”

“Audrey, Audrey, my darling. . . .”

“When I saw the Arms that morning, I nearly fainted. Then I went all cold, to think that you—_my_ Prince Charming—were really the wicked lord. . . . The moment you let me go I saw my mistake. In a flash I realized that you were playing some game. Then I got all mad to think that you’d kept it from me—so I started in too. . . . But I nearly gave it away that evening at Domesday Mill, when you said he had watery eyes. It—it was so libellous, Christopher. . . .”

Pendragon smiled.

“My beautiful lady,” he said, “that came to me out of the blue. There never was, I believe, such a fairy-tale. I was afraid to kiss you for fear of breaking things up. You know. The Sleeping Beauty. If I waked you with a kiss, you might kiss me back: but then, again, you mightn’t. And then in the end I did . . . and the worst happened.”

“But you didn’t, dear,” said Audrey. “If you had . . .”

Pendragon sighed.

“Of course,” he said, “I shall never understand women.”

Audrey put up her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Real men don’t,” she murmured. “That’s why I love you so.”

* * * * *

Sunday morning came, and the great sun with it. The day was all glorious.

Excitement in Sundial was running high.

All that the village knew was that Warthog was proved a rogue, and that the Lord of the Manor would take his rightful seat that August morning.

The tiny church was packed ten minutes before the hour.

At five minutes to eleven the private door was opened, and amid a breathless silence a well-dressed but familiar figure appeared in the Pendragon pew.

Sundial’s heart stood still.

Then—

“Why, it’s Mister John,” piped an old, tremulous voice.

Pent-up feelings vented themselves in an hysterically explosive ‘Sh-h-h.’

Pendragon rose to his feet and glanced down the church. Then he stepped down from the chancel and passed to Mrs. Trelawney and Miss de Lisle.

A whisper, and the ladies rose and preceded him to his family pew.

The ranks of Sundial ‘could scarce forbear to cheer.’

But when, after the Second Lesson, the Vicar published ‘the Banns of Marriage between Christopher John Charles Pendragon, Bachelor, and Audrey de Lisle, Spinster, both of this Parish,’ the concluding sentences were lost in a spontaneous rendering of Sundial’s favourite hymn.

This was the Old Hundredth.

The villagers of Sundial are simple folk.

IVAN

IVAN

Belinda Seneschal, spinster, leaned back in her chair.

“What’s to be done?” she demanded.

Her solicitor fingered his chin.

“It’s simple enough,” he said, surveying a letter. “The house and its contents are yours—and Captain Pomeroy’s. They’ve only to be made over, and then, er, then . . .”

“Exactly,” observed Miss Seneschal. “What then?”

Forsyth, solicitor, frowned.

“Then you arrange to take possession.”

Belinda raised her sweet eyebrows.

“Mr. Forsyth, d’you know Captain Pomeroy?”

“Very well. He’s a client of mine. As a matter of fact, he’s due here in ten minutes’ time—I imagine, to discuss a similar letter to this.” He tapped the document. “It’s rather convenient.”

“It isn’t convenient at all,” said Belinda Seneschal. “I’ll tell you why. Six months ago Captain Pomeroy and I were engaged. It wasn’t announced, but we were. Well, now we aren’t.”

Forsyth thought very fast.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Ah, yes, I see now. That explains the bequest. The testator——”

“We met him at Biarritz,” said Belinda. “His dog was run over by a car, and we did what we could. Poor old man, he was beside himself. After that we used to go and see him sometimes to try and cheer him up. It wasn’t much to do, and he was pathetically grateful. Of course, we never dreamed . . .”

“One never does,” said Forsyth. “Yes?”

“Well, that’s all,” said Miss Seneschal. “He knew of our engagement and naturally assumed it was going to end in marriage. So out of the kindness of his heart he’s left us his house. It was extremely handsome of him. It’s a perfectly lovely place.”

Forsyth referred to the letter.

. . . . _my property at Biarritz, known as_ =Les Iles
d’Or=, _including the villa and all its contents, jointly
to Miss Belinda Seneschal . . . and Captain Ivan Pomeroy . . .
in the belief that they will appreciate it and neither sell nor
let the same_. . . .

“It’s a question of arrangement,” he said. “That’s all I can say. I don’t suppose you want to renounce—surrender your share?”

Belinda sat up.

“And have him take both? Not much.”

“Well, there you are,” said Forsyth. “In view of the testator’s words, I take it you won’t care to sell, so there’s nothing for it. You must arrange to share it.” Here a telephone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver. “Yes? . . . Right. Show him into the waiting-room.” He replaced the receiver. “Here he is, Miss Seneschal.”

That lady leaped to her feet.

“Then I’m off,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” said Forsyth, rising. “If he’s prepared to meet you, won’t you stay?” Belinda shook her head. “It’s infinitely better to talk this over at once. It’ll save no end of correspondence.”

“I can’t help that,” said Miss Seneschal. “The position’s impossible enough. Think, Mr. Forsyth. We’ve each got to share something with the one person in the world with whom we can share nothing. We’re mutual thorns in the flesh. I tell you frankly, the very thought of him makes me tired, and I fancy the sight of me would send him out of his mind.”

“If you’ll forgive my saying so, it would be a great deal more likely to bring him to your feet.”

“I don’t want him at my feet.”

“It’s a very good place to have a joint-owner,” said Forsyth.

Miss Seneschal hesitated.

“D’you say it’s necessary for us to meet?”

“By no means. But it’s highly expedient.”

Finger to lip, Belinda stared at the door.

At length—

“Very well,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Forsyth relievedly. “I’ll go and bring him up.”

As the lawyer turned—

“Mr. Forsyth.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll—you’ll make it plain that, er, that I . . .”

“I shall say I wrung your consent from you.”

“Of course,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “you should have been an ambassador.”

Forsyth smiled back.

“Sometimes I am,” he said.

The next moment he was gone.

As he entered the waiting-room—

“Good morning, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “Here’s a go.”

“What’s happened?” said Forsyth.

“Ointment for two,” said Pomeroy, searching his pockets, “complete with bluebottle. Listen. The deceased—God bless him—has left me a most desirable residence—cesspool and all. It’s a peach of a place, overlookin’ the Bay of Biscay. What’s torn it up——”

“I know,” said Forsyth.

Pomeroy stared.

“Know?” he said. “But——”

“Miss Seneschal’s upstairs.”

Pomeroy started. Then he picked up his hat and was stepping a-tiptoe to the door.

“Here,” said Forsyth, detaining him, “I’ve—I’ve persuaded her to see you.”

“Not on your life,” said Pomeroy. “I—I’m rather frail this morning.”

“Will you renounce?”

“What, an’ let her have the lot? Not likely.”

“Then come upstairs,” said Forsyth. “The matter’s got to be discussed—obviously. You don’t want to write about forty letters, do you?”

“No, but——”

“Well, that’s what it means. More. In a case like this _oratio obliqua_’s hopeless. One never gets down to things.”

Pomeroy hesitated.

“It’s all damned fine, Forsyth,” he said uneasily, “but we haven’t met since—since the dust-up. Besides, it’s—it’s a very ticklish business—revivin’ memories.”

With a considerable effort Forsyth maintained his gravity.

“I beg that you’ll do as I say. Miss Seneschal sees the wisdom of an ordinary business talk. Surely you’re not going to be the one to resist.”

Pomeroy stared upon the floor.

At length—

“Oh, all right,” he said. “If she wants it. . . .”

“That’s right,” said Forsyth, shepherding him out of the room. . . .

A moment later he stood before his lady.

“Hullo, Belinda,” he said. “How—how are you?”

Miss Seneschal nodded.

“Full of it, thanks,” she said composedly. “How are you?”

“Bursting,” said Pomeroy. “Simply bursting, thanks. Awfully nice of old Drawbridge to do us so proud.”

“Perfectly sweet of him,” said Belinda.

Forsyth brought forward a chair.

“Sit down,” he said.

Pomeroy subsided gratefully.

“The property,” said the lawyer, resuming his seat, “has been left to you two jointly. I take it you came to see me to ask—not so much what that means as where you each come in.” The two nodded, and Pomeroy crossed his legs. “Well, first let me tell you what it means. It means that each of you is absolute owner of _Les Iles d’Or_ and all the villa contains—subject only to the other’s right. Each of you can take possession as and when you please, invite what guests, install what servants you like. Neither of you can exclude the other. If A is there, and B decides to come, A can’t exclude B—or his servants or his ox or his ass or anything that is his. B has a co-equal right. Very well. The only way to enjoy a property so held is to make and abide by an arrangement. The obvious and most simple way is for each to agree to use it for half the year.”

Miss Seneschal frowned.

“My plans,” she said, “are rather unsettled. I don’t think I want to bind myself . . .”

“I agree,” said Pomeroy. “The Biarritz feelin’ is apt to come with a rush. An’ supposin’ one chose the wrong half.”

“Supposing,” said Belinda dreamily, “supposing, to begin with, we took it for three months each. This is March. Well, you have it till the end of June, and I’ll have it from then to October. Then if that works——”

“Nothing doing,” said Captain Pomeroy. Belinda started, and Forsyth’s hand flew to his mouth. “The Biarritz season is short, but it’s very sweet.”

“When is the season?” said Forsyth.

“Well, there are really two seasons,” said Belinda. “The Spring season and——”

“Yes, you can have that one,” said Pomeroy. “What about July _nach_ September?”

“Oh, of course it’s more crowded then,” admitted Belinda, “but to my mind the pleasantest time is in the Spring.”

“All right,” said Pomeroy promptly. “You have it now, and I’ll take over on the first of July.”

Miss Seneschal swallowed.

“I can’t do that,” she said coldly. “I—I’m engaged from now till July.”

“So’m I,” said Pomeroy shortly. “Six deep. London season.”

There was a pregnant silence.

At length—

“I think we’d better renounce,” said Belinda shakily.

“Renounce?” cried Pomeroy. “Not in this suiting. It’s the first villa I’ve been left at Biarritz, an’ the next one mayn’t be so nice.”

“It’s—it’s very nice, is it?” said Forsyth.

“Perfectly charming,” said Belinda. “It’s got the most glorious position.”

“Almost sacred,” said Pomeroy. “Five minutes from everywhere.”

“I meant the views,” flashed Belinda. “You can see for miles.”

“Quite that,” said Pomeroy. “And what about six bathrooms, Forsyth? Six. All tiled.”

“It’s the last word in luxury,” agreed Belinda. “And there’s practically nothing to be done. When that stuff on the edge of the terrace has been taken away——”

“What stuff?” said Pomeroy suspiciously. “D’you mean the balustrade?”

“Well, it isn’t really a balustrade.” She addressed herself to the lawyer. “It’s a hideous sort of parapet, Mr. Forsyth. It doesn’t go with anything and it just ruins the whole _ensemble_.”

“My dear Belinda,” said Pomeroy, “you can’t take that away. It mayn’t be a work of art, but it’s pretty useful. You must have a rail or something.”

“Why?”

“There’s a twelve-foot drop,” said Pomeroy. “That’s why. You can’t have a depth like that unflagged. Supposing one of your guests came in a bit lively—by starlight.”

“I don’t entertain drunkards.”

“Well, I protest,” said Pomeroy. “I—I like the balustrade.”

“Unfortunately I don’t,” said Belinda in a freezing tone. “That’s why I shall have it removed. When you come you can fix up a life-line—for night-work.”

Forsyth cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid any structural alterations would have to be agreed, Miss Seneschal.”

“But it isn’t a structural alteration.”

“My dear child,” said Pomeroy, raising his eyes.

Belinda regarded him furiously. Then she averted her gaze and tilted her chin.

“Mr. Forsyth,” she said, “the house is ours. If it was mine I should put in a caretaker at once. But I suppose I mustn’t do that.”

Forsyth turned to Pomeroy.

“Have you any objection?” he said.

“None,” said Pomeroy, “provided the caretaker has instructions to take orders from me.”

Miss Seneschal gasped.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” she said. “I should be paying the caretaker.”

“Exactly,” said Pomeroy. “And when I rolled up with my baggage she’d send for the police.”

“She’d have instructions to permit you to enter.”

“She’d have ten minutes to clear out,” was the violent reply. “I’m not going to be followed about my own house by a glassy-eyed sleuth in somebody else’s pay.”

Speechless with indignation, Belinda crowded lightning into her beautiful eyes.

“I know a very good man,” continued Pomeroy, apparently addressing the cornice. “If you like I’ll send him to see you. I shall tell him that you are his mistress and——”

“That,” said Belinda, “would be misleading. No nominee of yours will enter _Les Iles d’Or_.”

“Look here,” said Forsyth. “By the merest chance I happen to be going to Biarritz in six days’ time. If you like I’ll install a caretaker and have an inventory made. Copies to each of you, of course. I’ll find a good agent and tell him to pay the caretaker and keep an eye on the house. He’d better report to you both once a month. When you propose to reside you’ll let him know and he’ll make the necessary arrangements. If anything has to be done at any time he’ll write to you both, and your two signatures will be his authority to go ahead.”

“Forsyth,” said Pomeroy piously, “what should we do without you?”

“You really are an angel,” said Miss Seneschal. “Now help us out with the dates.”

The solicitor picked up a pencil and began to draw lines upon a pad.

“Whenever,” he said slowly, “I deal with a Will I always feel that I am treading venerable ground. A Will is an essentially human document. It is the spokesman of the dead. . . . Man can take nothing out of this world. Therefore one day he sits down and puts upon record—secret record to whom, when his wealth is left masterless, he desires it to pass. Sometimes his directions are rational: sometimes they seem unkind: sometimes they are unexpected. But, as the spokesman says, so it must be done. We cannot reason with the spokesman—perhaps that’s as well. But, what is more to the point, the spokesman cannot reason with us. Its principal is dead. . . . Well, because it cannot reason, it is to my mind our duty to reason with ourselves on its behalf. _Noblesse oblige._ We that are quick owe it to the pitiful dead. We must look to see what is written—between the lines. . . . Here is a bare bequest. _Why was it made?_ Because the old man liked you—liked you both. He hoped it would bring you happiness—joint happiness. He assumed, of course, that you would marry. He thought about you when you were gone. It gave him rare pleasure to picture his two young friends enjoying his home. Therefore he left it you. . . . Well, you’re not going to marry. There goes half his dream. I’m sure for his memory’s sake you won’t shatter the other half.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“You’re perfectly right,” said Pomeroy uncertainly. “I’m afraid I rather lost sight of that—that aspect.”

“So did I,” said Belinda shakily. “And I feel very much ashamed. Ivan, if we can’t behave ourselves we ought to renounce. It’s—it’s not decent.”

“Don’t rub it in, dear,” said Ivan brokenly. “You—you can shift the blinkin’ balustrade.”

“I shan’t,” said Belinda. “He—he put it there.” Ivan groaned. “I shan’t touch a thing,” she continued tearfully. “And we won’t have any arrangement about residing. I don’t think it’s necessary now.”

“That’s right,” said Ivan. “After all, one doesn’t have to have a lawsuit as to who’s to have the first bath. If one wants hers at half-past eight, the other can have his at nine.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Seneschal. The two rose to their feet. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Forsyth. You’ll let us know whatever we’ve got to do.”

“I will,” said Forsyth, rising. “When either wants to occupy they can send the other a card. If any difficulty arises you can always come to me. But I’m sure it won’t.”

He passed to the door.

“Good-bye, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “And many, many thanks. For takin’ other people’s bulls by the horns you have no equal.”

Belinda laughed mischievously.

“Whose bull did you take this morning?” she said.

“No one’s,” said Forsyth. “I took a lady by the hand and a soldier by the arm, and the three of us did some reading between the lines.”

“What did I say you should have been?”

The solicitor smiled.

“I told you I was—sometimes.”

As the two passed down the stairs—

“I—I suppose you wouldn’t lunch with me, Belinda?”

“Not—not to-day, Ivan.”

“You will one day?”

“Perhaps—one day.”

They passed into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

The lady’s car was waiting, and Pomeroy opened the door.

“It’s—it’s been a great pleasure,” he said, “to see you again.”

Belinda put out a small hand.

“I hope you’ll be very happy at _Les Iles d’Or_, Ivan.”

Pomeroy took off his hat.

“I might have been,” he said.

With her hand in his, Belinda looked down and away.

“Good-bye,” she said gently.

The hand slipped away, and my lady got into the car.

“You will lunch—one day?” said Ivan.

Belinda nodded.

* * * * *

The London season was drawing to a close.

The two had met little: it seemed as though Belinda was avoiding her sometime swain.

Naturally enough, the latter’s thoughts were turning towards Biarritz and _Les Iles d’Or_. He decided, however, that the lady must make the first move.

One morning a letter arrived.

_July 7th._
_DEAR IVAN,_

_If it’s convenient to you, I propose going to_ Les Iles d’Or
_for a few days next week. Let me know when you want to come,
and I’ll clear out._

_Yours,_
_BELINDA._

A reply went pelting.

_July 8th._
_MY DEAR BELINDA,_

_Of course it’s convenient. I hope you have a topping good time.
Stay as long as you like, dear, and send me a line when you go.
I’d sort of like to follow you._

_IVAN._

Nearly a month slid by.

The weather in England was consistently vile. According to the papers, Biarritz was bathed in sunshine day after day.

Pomeroy comforted himself with the reflection that Belinda was happy.

Then a telegram arrived.

_Are you at Les Iles d’Or if not I go there next Thursday for a
fortnight have been unable to get off before Seneschal._

Pomeroy read the message with starting eyes.

After a frightful half-hour he sat down and replied by letter.

_August 5th._
_DEAR BELINDA,_

_All right. I wish I’d known you weren’t at Biarritz, because
I’d have gone. Never mind. A fortnight from next Thursday will
bring us to the 21st. That’ll be all right because I shan’t want
to come before September 5th. When you leave you might tell the
agent to expect me that day._

_Yours,_
_IVAN._

August was cold and stormy throughout the British Isles. In the South of France prayers for rain were being offered. The papers said that the Biarritz season was the most brilliant ever known.

Pomeroy, who was at a loose end, began to count the days.

Then came a post-card.

_August 28th._

_Leaving for Biarritz on September 1st. Could you postpone your
visit till the 15th? I should have gone before only it’s been
impossible to get away. If I don’t hear I shall assume it’s all
right._

_B.S._

Receiving it from the hall-porter, Pomeroy had to be assisted out of the vestibule.

For a long time he seemed to have lost the power of speech. Then this returned—in spate.

Pomeroy raged.

He telephoned to Forsyth, but Forsyth was out of town.

Then he wrote to Belinda—a letter three sheets long. This, when written, he destroyed.

Finally he telegraphed.

_Shall arrive September 15th as sure as water’s wet please
inform agent Pomeroy._

It was the last straw.

* * * * *

The fifteenth day of September was the monarch of a glorious week.

The sky was cloudless, and the sun, a beneficent giant, beamed upon a fabulous world. The ocean stretched, a flood of dark-blue quicksilver, brilliant and tremulous. The yellow coast and gay green countryside made up a ragged counterpane vivid and vast enough to shoulder Mandeville. The breath of a slumbering breeze tempered the savoury air.

Ivan, who had lain at Bordeaux the night before, came floating into Biarritz with a thankful heart.

As his car swept up the drive of _Les Iles d’Or_, his servant, unshaven and travel-stained, rose from a pile of luggage beside a bed of hydrangeas.

“What’s the matter?” said his master, setting a foot upon the brake. “Can’t you get in?”

“No, sir. The villa seems to be occupied, sir.”

“_What?_”

“A quarter to eight we arrived, sir, just as you said. The door was open then, an’ a fellow was sweepin’ the steps. I took ’im for the caretaker. So I says, ‘Good mornin’,’ I says. ‘Jus’ give me a ’and with this stuff.’ ’E stares very ’ard, so I says it again in French. ’E didn’ seem to get it, so I mentions your name. At that ’e tells me to wait an’ goes orf indoors. I gets out Mrs. Dewlap an’ the ’ouse-maid an’ begins fetchin’ the small things out o’ the bus. . . . Then another man appears. ’Appily ’e could talk English. ‘You’ve made an error,’ ’e says. ‘You’ve come to the wrong ’ouse.’ ‘What?’ says I. ‘Ain’t this _The Eel’s Door_?’ ‘Perfectly,’ says ’e. ‘Well, then, wot’s wrong?’ says I. ‘This is Captain Pomeroy’s stuff. Are you the caretaker?’ ‘I’m the butler,’ ’e says, lofty. ‘Ooze Captain Pomeroy?’ ‘You’ll soon find out ’oo ’e is,’ I says, ‘if ’e sees you in them canvas shoes. An’ ’oo are you, any’ow? Ooze butler?’ . . . ’E gets very excited then, sir, an’ starts on me in French an’ wavin’ ’is arms. So I leaves ’im to it an’ starts gettin’ the stuff orf of the ’bus. When ’e sees the trunks comin’ down ’e gets more excited than ever. ‘No, no,’ ’e shouts. ‘Wrong ’ouse. You must go away,’ ’e shouts, ‘an’ take your baggage.’ Of course I takes no notice but lets ’im rave. Then a trunk comes down with a bang. ‘Quiet, quiet,’ ’e yells. ‘You’ll wake my lady.’ ‘You’ve woke ’er long ago,’ says I, ‘for the matter o’ that. An’ ooze your lady?’ . . . Well, I couldn’t get the name, sir. Mademoiselle Seashell, it sounded like. Any way, I told ’im that there was trouble to come and that if ’e wanted to weather it the sooner ’e let me inside an’ on to the telephone, the better for ’im. The idea was to speak to the agent, sir. You gave me ’is name. But ’e wouldn’ let me in. I tried the back door, but they’d got that fast, an’ the other fellow inside with a broom in ’is ’and. By the time I got back the front door was shut an’ barred. . . . By the time I’d paid the driver Mrs. Dewlap was feelin’ queer, sir. So I took ’er to the kitchen window an’ asked for a cup of tea. After a lot of talk they passed some tea through the bars, but it was that filthy she couldn’ touch it. So I sent ’er an’ Polly orf to walk to the town an’ find a restaurant. I ’aven’t seem them since an’ I s’pose they’ve lost themselves. I’ve stayed ’ere with the baggage an’ watched that door. But it’s never opened again.”

“I see,” said Pomeroy grimly. “Well, I’m much obliged. I’m glad you warned the butler and I hope he passed it on.”

With that, he got out of the car, mounted the broad steps and rang the bell.

After considerable delay the door was opened by a fat servitor.

“Miss Seneschal?” said Pomeroy curtly.

“Mademoiselle is engaged, sair.”

Pomeroy took out a card.

“Take her that card,” he said. The man accepted the pasteboard and was for closing the door. “And tell her I’m waiting,” added Pomeroy, as though by accident leaning against the oak.

The butler boggled.

“But Mademoiselle is not receiving, Monsieur.”

“Do as I say,” said Ivan.

“When Mademoiselle is descend, sair, I will give ’er the card. Eef Monsieur will return these afternoon——”

“Send the card up,” said Ivan. “And say that I am below.”

The butler began to perspire.

“Verry good, sair . . . Monsieur will excuse me, but Monsieur is again’ ze door.”

“You can leave it open,” said Ivan comfortably. “I’m not here to steal.”

The butler took a deep breath.

“Mademoiselle ’as gommanded——”

“No doubt,” said Ivan drily. “Tell her that I prevented you. Tell her I said that if you tried to shut it I should tell my servants to put you in the road.”

The butler looked round wildly. Then he caught Ivan’s eye and blenched. Finally, after one frightful spasm of irresolution, he flung up despairing palms and staggered into the hall.

A flurry of furious whispering came to Pomeroy’s ears.

Then the butler returned, with starting eyes.

“Mademoiselle regrets that she cannot see you, sair.”

“Right,” said Pomeroy, lighting a cigarette. Then, “Dewlap!” he cried. “Berryman!”

“Sir,” came a ready chorus from valet and chauffeur.

“Bring in those things.”

“Very good, sir.”

A moment later, bearing a trunk between them, the two ex-soldiers reached the top of the steps.

“Into the hall for the moment,” said Pomeroy. “They can go upstairs later on.”

“Very good, sir.”

The trunk and its bearers passed in, with Ivan behind, the butler retreating backwards before the _cortège_ after the manner of a chamberlain preceding Royalty.

As they deposited their burden upon a marble pavement, Belinda rose from a chair in all her glory.

“What does this mean?” she demanded, addressing Ivan.

“It means,” said Ivan calmly, “that I’m a man of my word. I said I should come on the fifteenth, and here I am.” He turned to his men. “Put the rest just inside and wait within call.”

“Very good, sir.”

“But I’m in residence,” flashed Belinda.

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” said Pomeroy, hanging his hat on a peg. “So’m I.”

“D’you mind getting out?” said Belinda in a shaking voice. “Or am I to ring up the police?”

“You can ring up the Bastille, if you like. But don’t do the instrument in. I hate being without a telephone.”

Miss Seneschal stamped an extremely pretty foot.

“Will you get out of this house?”

“No,” said Ivan, “I won’t. For ten solid, soul-searing weeks I’ve let you have it, and this is where I get on. I admit my leg’s elastic, but you’ve rung the bell. It won’t stretch any more.”

“Ten weeks?” cried Belinda. “Why, I’ve only been here four days!”

“I put it at your disposal on the eighth of July. Eight from thirty-one leaves——”

“You also begged me to stay as long as I liked.”

“I hope you will,” said Ivan. “There’s plenty of room,” and, with that, he sank into a chair.

For a moment Belinda never moved. Then she gave a light laugh and, opening an Old Chelsea box, selected a cigarette. When she had lighted this she took her seat upon a table.

“Your bluff,” she said, “is vigorous, if not in the best of taste. I think it’s time I called it. I’m not going out, Ivan.”

“Aren’t you?” said Pomeroy. “I am. Not yet, but after lunch. The air’s lovely.”

“I mean,” said Belinda coolly, “that I’m not going to vacate this villa.”

“Good,” said Ivan cheerfully. “Neither am I.”

Miss Seneschal stared.

Then she slid down from the table and stepped to his side.

“But if I stay here, you can’t.”

“Can’t I?” said Ivan. “Well, I’m going to have a blinkin’ good try.”

“Are you serious?” demanded Miss Seneschal.

“My dear girl,” said Pomeroy, “at considerable inconvenience and expense I’ve brought about two tons of luggage, four servants and a car some seven hundred miles. Would you do that by way of being comic?”

“I can’t help that,” said Belinda. “You should have inquired before you started.”

Pomeroy leaned back and covered his face.

“Oh, give me strength,” he murmured. Then: “D’you mind indicating the nature of the inquiry I should have made?”

“Whether I was here, of course.”

“I see,” said Pomeroy uncertainly. “In view of our correspondence, I disagree. The fifteenth was your suggestion, which I was mug enough to accept. But let that go. What difference d’you think such an inquiry would have made? It would certainly have satisfied curiosity, but I don’t happen to be curious.”

“I like to think,” said Belinda, “that you would have postponed your visit.”

Pomeroy sighed.

“Of course,” he said, “the trouble is that I’m just an ordinary ass. If I was a half-baked worm with a game spine we should have our arms round one another’s necks.”

“And if,” said Belinda sweetly, “you were a gentleman, you’d get up and beg my pardon and walk right out of this house.”

“What, an’ leave my luggage?” said Pomeroy.

Belinda shrugged her shoulders.

“That,” she said, “could be thrown after you.”

Pomeroy closed his eyes.

“I should simply hate,” he murmured, “to be a gentleman.”

With a look of unutterable contempt, Miss Seneschal re-ascended the table and folded her arms.

“The villa belongs,” she announced, “to the one who’s in possession.”

“That’s not the law,” said Ivan, “but never mind. I’m in possession, too.”

“You forced your way in.”

“I did nothing of the sort. The door was opened by your butler, thereby occasioning a void through which I passed.”

“Against my will,” said Belinda. “I shall cable to Forsyth.”

“Do,” said Ivan. “Mind you give him my love.”

Belinda set her teeth.

“If he says I’m to go, I’ll go. Till then——”

“But he won’t,” said Pomeroy. “You’ve every right to be here—and so have I.”

“But we can’t both stay in this house.”

“That,” said Ivan, “is a matter of opinion. To the best of my recollection there are seven principal bedrooms and six bathrooms. I don’t know how many you take, but I can struggle through on a couple of each.”

Belinda consulted her wrist-watch.

“Unless,” she said, “you withdraw in two minutes, I shall ring for Henri to take your luggage outside.”

“Have a heart,” said Pomeroy. “Henri’s already lost half a stone over this business. If you give him an order like that, he’ll become a total wreck.”

“He’s devoted to me,” said Belinda.

“I’m sure of that,” said Ivan. “But he loathes the look in my eye. It’s the combination of devotion and abhorrence that makes him get so hot. They sort of seethe together.”

“D’you propose to interfere with his execution of my orders?”

“Not exactly ‘interfere,’” said Ivan. “It’ll be more mental. I shall sort of discourage him.”

Belinda drew in her breath.

“How long,” she demanded, “are you going on like this?”

Pomeroy rose.

“I’m not going on any longer,” he said quietly. “I’m through. More. I’ve just come across from Bordeaux and I want a bath and a change. Reason suggests that you’re using a first-floor suite. Very well. I shall go up to the second floor.”

Belinda sprang to her feet.

“I absolutely refuse,” she flamed, “to consider such an idea. Good heavens, man! Think of what people would say. What about my name?”

“Belinda,” said Pomeroy sternly, “you should have thought of that before. I gave you—not an inch, but an ell. What’s my reward? You take a furlong. . . . Good, full measure I gave you, without a word. You chuck it in my face—and ask for more. Once would have been enough for most men: because I loved you”—Belinda started—“yes, loved you, I let you do it twice. I believed you merely thoughtless—wanted you to have a good time, even if I had to pay. It never occurred to me that you were twisting my tail.”

The girl’s eyes fell, and a finger flew to her lip.

Pomeroy proceeded quietly.

“If you neither love nor respect him, you can twist a man’s tail nearly off—provided he loves you. But the man mustn’t know it, Belinda. The moment he does, his self-respect won’t allow you to twist his tail any more.”

For a moment the two stood silent.

Then the girl turned and, walking across the hall, entered one of the salons and closed its door.

Pomeroy called his servants, and his luggage was taken upstairs.

* * * * *

For the burden of the next six days Lady Cherubic shall speak.

_My dear_, she wrote to her sister, _I can’t come yet. If I do I
shall spoil such sport as never you saw. I told you Belinda
Seneschal had compelled me to become her guest—at half an
hour’s notice, quite late last Monday night. And I told you why.
Well, it’s better than any play you ever thought of. Captain
Pomeroy is a perfectly charming man. He’s tall and fair, and
he’s got a merry eye and a very good nose. He’s thirty-four,
clean-shaven and laughs delightedly. Very easy-going and a
strong sense of humour. We get on admirably. He loves Belinda
very much. Belinda’s dark and a beauty. Great brown eyes and an
exquisite mouth: straight as an arrow, and the figure that
everyone wants. You know. The more you take off, the better it
looks. In her bathing-dress. . . . And she’s really a sweet
girl. Since I turned fifty I’ve learned to expect nothing from
twenty-five. But this child is not like that. Belinda treats me
as if I were her very rich aunt. But she treats Ivan Pomeroy as
if he were a hideous wedding-present which she can’t throw out
for fear of offending the donor—a certain sign of love, as you
will agree._

_Well, there you are, Mary._

_Tuesday—my first day here—was rather hectic. The servants, of
course. Rival staffs in the same basement, determined to serve
two masters with the same range and pantry at the same time,
were almost bound to realize the worst misgivings of The
Litany—even if they were all compatriots, which they aren’t.
Ivan has brought out his English servants. Only a man could do
such a hopeless thing. An English cook-housekeeper who can’t
talk a word of French and is accustomed to dealing in St.
James’s! Can you see her in a French market? More. Can you see
her in a French kitchen, explaining in the tone one reserves for
the stone-deaf to a French cook who believes in France for the
French that ‘the Captain deserved the best and it wouldn’t be
her fault if he didn’t get it’? I intervened at last, to prevent
murder being done. The French butler had been ducked in the sink
and then shut in the coal-cellar. This, because he had intimated
that the kitchen crockery was good enough for Ivan. The_
brosseur _had been obstructive when Ivan’s housemaid had sought
for a dust-pan and brush and, when she found them, had tried to
drag them away. Polly criticized his conduct, and the_ brosseur
_pinched her arm. Ivan’s chauffeur immediately knocked him down
and was kneeling on his stomach when I arrived. The two cooks
were under arms, eyeing each other wildly and giving violent
tongue. Belinda’s maids and Polly and Dewlap—Ivan’s man—were
in support, reviling one another’s countries in terms which, had
they been intelligible to those for whom they were meant, could
not have been endured. I straightened things out somehow. Then I
called a council upstairs. I told Belinda that if I wasn’t fed I
should go, and I said that I shouldn’t be fed if she didn’t tell
her staff that Ivan’s servants had as much right here as they.
Finally things were arranged—in the only possible way. Henri
was compensated and fired, and Dewlap was given his place.
Belinda’s cook was appointed cook to the household, and Ivan’s
housekeeper put in charge of the house. Since then peace has
reigned—below stairs. It was also a step forward upon the
ground floor, because it meant that we three must feed
together. . . ._

_Our meals are a perfect scream. Belinda sits at one end of the
table, Ivan at the other, and I sit in between. They both talk
to me vivaciously, but such conversation as they use to each
other is of the armoured type. The impression that I am the
guest of a married couple who are upon their dignity is
sometimes overwhelming. Ivan delights to enhance this. The other
night he looked across at Belinda. ‘I don’t like these
finger-bowls,’ he said. ‘Haven’t we got any other ones, dear?’
Belinda choked, and I began to laugh. Then—‘Aren’t these big
enough?’ says my lady. ‘Too big,’ says Ivan. ‘I’m afraid of
wetting my ears.’ Belinda fought not to smile. ‘Consult the
inventory,’ she said. ‘Right,’ said Ivan. ‘What’s the French for
“finger-bowls”?’ ‘Consult a dictionary,’ says Belinda. ‘I
can’t,’ says Ivan. ‘I gave mine to Henri. His need was greater
than mine.’ Belinda broke down at that, as was right and proper:
but order was soon restored. They never meet except at meals,
but never once so far has either had a meal out. Thus, under the
guise of insisting upon their rights, they improve the
opportunity of being together._

_Ivan keeps his end up and is thoroughly at home, but he never
intrudes or oversteps the mark. After dinner we go to the
drawing-room, and he retires to the library. Both rooms command
the terrace, but if we sit outside Ivan never comes out. Of
course he’s as much my host as Belinda’s my hostess, but he
never lets me feel that. His attitude to me is that of a
fellow-guest._

_To-day Belinda’s car was out of action. The first she or I knew
of it was when we came down to go out and found Ivan’s Rolls at
the door. Belinda stopped dead. Then she turned upon Dewlap. ‘I
thought you said the car was here.’ The chauffeur intervened.
‘You’ve broken a spring, Miss. So Captain Pomeroy ’opes that
you’ll use ’is car.’ Belinda began to flush, so I got in—quick.
After a moment she followed me. ‘I couldn’t let you refuse,’ I
said. ‘Ivan’s not the man to do this for gain.’ She just
squeezed my fingers. ‘I hoped,’ she said, ‘I hoped you would
force my hand.’ ‘I’ll remember that,’ said I. She blushed
exquisitely._

_So, you see, the end is approaching._

_And now I must fly down to dinner. I wouldn’t be late for
worlds._

_Your loving sister,_
_JANE._

_P.S.—I said the end was approaching._