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.
After dinner we sat on the terrace—a perfect night. Presently I called Ivan. He appeared at the window, pipe in hand. ‘Why don’t you come and sit here?’ I said. ‘It’s wicked to stay indoors.’ ‘D’you think so?’ he said, hesitating. ‘I’m sure of it,’ said I. ‘Of course, if you’d rather read . . .’ He came out and sat down. He and I talked for a while, and then Belinda joined in. By ten o’clock the tambourine was rolling. When we got up to go to bed, Belinda gave Ivan her hand. ‘It was very nice of you to lend me your car,’ she said. Ivan bowed. ‘It was very nice of you to use it,’ he said gently. I tried to escape, but Belinda caught me up. Still, the last act has begun.
J.
Lady Cherubic was right.
As a matter of fact she accelerated the dénouement by setting her foot firmly on the pedal of opportunity and pressing it right down.
In a word, on the very next evening the three had not been together for a quarter of an hour when she rose and announced her intention of retiring to take a short nap.
With that, she walked into the library.
After a moment Ivan, who had risen also, resumed his seat and put his pipe back in his mouth.
“I—I hope she’s all right,” said Belinda presently. “D’you think I should go and see?”
Ivan shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
There was a silence.
“I think I’d better,” said Belinda.
“I—I shouldn’t,” said Ivan uneasily. “Er, supposing you woke her.”
Belinda flitted across the pavement and stole into the room. . . .
Her back towards the window, her shoes in her hand, Lady Cherubic was in the act of stealthily opening the door.
Belinda sank to her knees behind a bureau.
When the door had closed, she rose and turned to the terrace. . . .
As she sank into her chair—
“All right?” queried Ivan.
Belinda nodded.
The night was marvellous.
The moon sailed in the heaven, a clean-cut stoup of glory upon a violet field. Far on the left Spain sloped to the ocean with the crouch of a drinking beast. To the right a lazy school of surf marched out of vision. A fitful breeze played with the sweet-smelling air as a kitten will play with a fringe.
Belinda sighed.
“The worst of a place like this,” she said slowly, “is that it always seems such a shame to go away.”
Ivan’s heart stood still.
“I—I hope you aren’t going,” he stammered.
“I must on Thursday,” said Belinda, twisting her pretty hands. “Lady Cherubic’s sister is beginning to stamp, and I can’t presume upon her kindness.”
“I won’t hear of your leaving,” blurted Ivan. “Of course, I shall go to an hotel.”
Belinda shook her head.
“It’s very kind of you,” she said, “but it can’t be done. For one thing, I don’t think Henri’s available.”
“Thank God for that,” said Ivan fervently. “And of course Dewlap’ll stay. He’s crazy about you.”
“You’re very good,” said Belinda, “but I’m afraid I must go. I think if I were you I should keep the cook on, but Jacques is a wash-out.”
“I—I shan’t stay on if you go.”
Belinda started.
“You—won’t—stay on?” she faltered. “Why on earth not?”
Ivan shifted uneasily.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Why—why should I?”
“Well, that’s what you came for—Ivan.”
“I know. But . . . Well, it’s a bigger house than I thought. You know. A shade roomy for one. The thought of five empty bathrooms’d make my blood run cold.”
“Isn’t there someone you can ask?”
Pomeroy shook his head.
“Not a soul.”
“But this is absurd,” said Belinda, crossing her legs. “One day you won’t come because I’m here, and the next you won’t stay because I’m not.”
“ ‘Won’t come’?” cried Ivan. “How could I?”
“Well, you did eventually, didn’t you?”
“I know, but——”
“If you’d liked,” said Belinda, “you could have come on the fifth.”
“I precious near did,” said Ivan. “When I got your card I nearly went off the deep end.”
“But you should have, Ivan.” The man took his pipe from his mouth and stared at the maid. “You should have written back, telling me to beat it for The Hothouse and saying that, come snow, September the woolly fifth would see you here.”
“Oh, you ungrateful girl! What if I had?”
“Then,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “then I should have come on the fourth.”
“What?” screamed Ivan, leaping up.
“Hush,” said Belinda, laying finger on lip. “You’ll—you’ll wake her.”
“D’you mean,” whispered Ivan hoarsely, “d’you mean you were waiting for me?”
“Listen,” said Belinda. “Do you remember what Forsyth said that day about the Will? He made us read between the lines, didn’t he? He showed us the implied condition upon which we were left this villa—that we should enjoy it together. Well, that implied condition stuck in my mind. . . . Presently I turned it round. If you remember, he said we ought to reason upon the Will’s behalf. And I asked myself whether, if Colonel Drawbridge had known that we were going to enjoy his home apart, he would have left it us. . . . And I came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t. . . . Well, that being so, there was only one thing to be done. Noblesse oblige, you know. You can’t take advantage of the dead.”
“Belinda!”
“Wait. That’s only my point of view. There’s no reason on earth why you should adopt it. My conclusion may be all wrong. But if ever I come again, I’ll get hold of Lady Cherubic and I hope you’ll come too. . . . And when—when I marry, Ivan, I shall renounce.”
There was a long silence.
At length—
“I—I thought you were twisting my tail,” said Ivan Pomeroy.
“I know. I—I wasn’t. A girl never twists the tail of a man she respects.”
Pomeroy stepped forward and picked up my lady’s hand.
“I don’t take your view,” he said steadily, “about the Will. The implied condition was blunter and much more precise. You can’t make ‘enjoyment’ a condition—that’s merely a matter of hope. But you can make—wedlock.” The hand began to tremble, and Belinda lifted its fellow and covered her eyes. “Let’s do as you did, dear, and turn it round. If old Drawbridge had known of our bust-up, d’you think he’d ’ve left us this place?”
The girl hesitated. Then—
“He—he might have, Ivan . . . just as—a matter of hope.”
Ivan fell on his knees and drew her hand from her face.
This was all rosy.
“Don’t let’s get out of our depth, dear. There’s something above inducements and villas and old fellows’ whims. Something stronger. It kept me out of this villa for ten long weeks.”
“And me,” whispered Belinda. Ivan put her hands to his lips and let his head fall to her lap. “When you asked me to lunch and said what you did—that day, it made me think . . . And then, suddenly, I was all sorry I hadn’t gone. . . . And then—I thought of the Will. . . . I thought, perhaps if we saw something of each other—not exactly off parade, but at—at home, Ivan. . . .”
The man put his arms about her and kissed her mouth.
“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you far better than ever I did before. When I came in that morning and found you here in the hall, I—I felt I always wanted to find you there when I came in. You looked so wonderful, Belinda.”
With her hands on his shoulders—
“You didn’t behave as though you did.”
“Respect had to be served.”
Belinda nodded gravely.
“That’s right. When you told me off at the last——”
“I beg your pardon, my darling. I didn’t know.”
“How could you, dear? Well, I felt an enormous respect.”
“I wonder you didn’t hate me.”
“I did—till luncheon next day. Like thunder. And then . . .” She hesitated there and slid her arms round his neck. “You looked so nice, my darling, across our own table.”
“My sweet, my sweet . . .”
Ivan rose to his feet and put a hand to his throat.
A moment’s fumbling, and in his hand lay a ring. This was fast to a cord about his neck.
The girl gasped.
“Ivan! Since when?”
“Since the night we tore it,” he said.
He snapped the cord and took her left hand in his.
Then he slid the ring on to her finger and put her palm to his lips. . . .
Her arms were close about him, and her cheek against his.
“Ivan, Ivan, my blessed! Now I know. . . . Till a moment ago I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t the Will.”
The man picked her up in his arms.
“You faithless child,” he said. “It was always only a question of finding a way. And then you found it.”
Belinda regarded him with shining eyes.
“That’s easy enough,” she said, “where there’s a Will.”