Part 9

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I don't see what I've gained by bringing her to London. There's a Rue de la Paix here too! The old joke had it that first you paid and then you rued, but I don't see how I can pay. It's her only fault, but it's deadly. I can't put a notice in the papers disowning her bills, because I'm not that sort, but it's getting very serious, and if something doesn't happen or someone doesn't leave me a fortune, I shall be up against it. When you see her, Ben, do try and make her understand."

"Of course I'll try," said Ben. "What a pity you haven't any children! If she had something like that to occupy her, she'd forget about dress."

"Not Yvonne!" said Cecil. "If Yvonne had been the old woman who lived in a shoe, she'd have had a different dress to do every whipping in."

"Doesn't she read?" Ben asked.

"She lies on the sofa with a book," said Cecil, "but she's not a reader. She's at heart a _mannequin_; but she's a darling too," he added hastily. "Don't think I'm not in love with her still. I am. I adore her. But heavens! she's extravagant: I've had to give up polo entirely because of it. She doesn't know it, but I have. I pretended I'd strained my back."

That evening Ben and Yvonne met at Colonel Staveley's.

"But, my dear Ben," said Yvonne, in her pretty broken English, "you would not 'ave me shabbee?"

"That would be impossible," said Ben. "But poor old Cecil isn't rich, you know."

"Ah!" said Yvonne, giving Ben a pat with delicate ringed hands, "'e 'ave spoke with you about me. And you say 'I will defend my big brozzer against this--this--so naughty butterfly?' Is it not so?"

"Cecil adores you," said Ben. "I wish you had some children."

Yvonne's large brown eyes filled with tears.

"And I," she said. "Always I think of it. But _le bon Dieu_, 'E say no."

XXXVII

Not long after the close of the Barclay Corbet episode Mr. Harford waylaid Ben as she passed through the shop.

"I was wondering," he said, "if you would break a chop with Soul and me this evening? Anywhere you like?"

Ben agreed.

"You shall not be restricted to a chop," said Jack. "Order anything in season or out of it. I'm rich to-day. I sold a lot of things to another Yank. They're the book seller's friends! Pat's at Leamington at a book sale--and I flatter myself he'll be surprised when he comes back."

"There are two ways of being surprised," said Ben, remembering the incident of the imperfect copy.

"That's a very nasty one," said Mr. Harford. "I credited you with a shorter memory. But the insult shall be washed out in red wine, or even, if you say the word, in the yellow and effervescing juices of Epernay or Rheims. Money is no object. Consider me this evening as a Quaritch, or even a Rosenbach."

"As a matter of fact," said Ben, "I am in need of a particularly good dinner, for I have had a trying day. More than one thing has happened to tire me, and my last client--or would-be client--did more than tire, she humiliated me."

"'How come?'" asked Jack, who had added that detestable transatlantic locution to his vocabulary, chiefly with the meritorious if frivolous purpose of exasperating his partner.

"A very offensive woman called half an hour ago in a motor-car many yards long--you may have noticed her--to ask me to make arrangements to take her little Peter out for a walk three times every day while she is away in Paris," said Ben. "I was very angry and refused."

"Is Peter her little boy?" Jack asked.

"Little boy!" said Ben. "Nothing so unimportant. It's her Pekinese. When I refused she was furious. She almost accused me of being an impostor. She said that my business was to solve domestic problems and that no domestic problem was so acute as the exercising of dogs."

"I wish I'd known," said Mr. Harford. "I saw her go out. If I'd known, I should have offered her some suitable books: 'Self Help' by Smiles, or 'It's Never Too Late to Mend,' The--the----"

"Hush!" said Ben. "People who hang out signs can't be choosers."

"Now that we are firmly entrenched in this corner," said Mr. Harford, after they had finished their soup, "I've got a proposition to lay before you. I was useful at Bibury, wasn't I?"

"Very," said Ben.

"I helped in bucking the men up and getting things done?"

"Very," said Ben.

"And you don't dislike me?"

"Not particularly," said Ben.

"Well," said Mr. Harford, "what I was thinking is that you and I might do very well in partnership."

Ben flushed.

"No," he said quickly. "I don't mean what you think I mean--at any rate not at the moment. But you're not engaged, are you?"

"No," said Ben.

"Thank Heaven!" said Mr. Harford fervently. "But look here, Miss Staveley, I swear I didn't ask you here to ask you that. It was sprung on me. I swear I didn't. You believe me, won't you?"

Ben expressed her belief.

"When I said 'partnership,'" he resumed, "I meant business partnership, although---- When I said partnership I meant business partnership. Because it seems to me that you and I could do a lot of things together very profitably. You could get this kind of commission again--old Corbet is probably singing your praises all over the place to other impulsive and rich Americans, and that will mean business--and I could act as your overseer."

"But what about 'The Booklovers' Rest'?" Ben asked.

"Well, Pat would run that; or, if need be, I'd retire. You know, Miss Staveley, speaking in strict confidence, I don't believe I'm a born book seller. Honest, I don't."

Ben laughed. "What a wonderful discovery to have made!" she said.

"But," he went on, quite gravely, "I do believe I have a _flair_ for getting the best out of people under me."

"There won't always be a trout stream," said Ben.

"Now you're making fun of me," he said. "I'm really serious. I feel all tied up and congested in that shop among mouldy books. It's all right for Pat--he's a literary cove, and his one desire is to read books and write them."

"Does he want to write?" Ben asked. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Harford; "that's his one ambition. But he can't afford to. He has to make a living. If he were rich he'd chuck book selling to-morrow and take to authorship; and he'd be jolly good too. I'd have my money in the business whatever happened. My mother is always good for more. But what do you say?"

"Well," said Ben, "I can't say anything very definite. We must wait till another Mr. Barclay Corbet comes along and then we might make some arrangement; but I think to talk of--of partnership is rather premature."

"But you don't hate me?" Mr. Harford asked anxiously.

"I said I didn't," Ben replied.

"I wish you could see my mother," he said. "She's splendid. But she lives rather a long way off--at Laycock. I suppose you wouldn't come down for a week-end? It is a delicious place, a little like Bibury, as a matter of fact. All grey too. Would you?"

"I don't see how I could," said Ben.

"No," said Mr. Harford. "I was afraid not."

He left her at her door.

She gave him her hand.

"Good evening, O'Reilly, You _are_ looking glum,"

she sang.

"No wonder," he said, and turned away.

Ben stood at the door long enough to see him stoop down and pat Soul's head.

XXXVIII

On Ben's desk lay a long envelope addressed to Miss Staveley in an unknown hand. Opening it she found the following fantasy:

THE INTERVIEW

I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn't dead; I went there on a mission to interview God for a paper.

"He will be quite easy," the editor assured me. "In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experience. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, no matter what they say to the contrary, and God will like it too. I'm told He's very human."

This was an odd dream for me, because I've never been a journalist; but if dreams weren't odd we shouldn't remember them.

I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It had no visible fastening, but always remained in position, about three inches above the head, not exactly shining but luminous. At night they must be very effective--if there is any night in Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I had asked heaps of things I didn't ask. Next time I shall make a list; but then there will be no next time.

Of course I don't mean that I should have troubled God about these trifles; I should have found one of the young angels who were everywhere and asked him; or I should have sent for one of my friends who died in the War....

Should I? I wonder if I should have dared....

Meanwhile St. Peter waits. "What do you want?" he asked.

I handed him my card with the name of the paper on it.

"God perhaps would grant me an interview?" I said. "I was sent here for the purpose."

St. Peter looked more than surprised.

"My editor," I said, "seemed confident that I should be admitted."

"Who is your editor?" said St. Peter. "Do we know him here?"

"I should doubt it," I replied.

"Well, I'll see," he said, "but it's all very unusual and irregular. You'd better tell your leonid to wait."

He carefully locked the door again, with me just inside it, and shuffled away. He was clearly irritated.

After a while he returned.

"It's very surprising," he said, "but God will see you. He seemed quite pleased about it. I don't know what Heaven's coming to. Personally, I'm against every kind of publicity. The emphasis laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two unfortunate moments in my own life has been a source of grief to me ever since. This way, please, and remember that the interview is permitted only on condition that no leading questions are asked. Nothing as to the reason for the creation or anything like that, for example. A quiet talk merely; no excitement."

How I came into the Presence I cannot remember; but suddenly I was with God, just ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened.

But St. Peter's warning about leading questions made it difficult for me. Of course those were what I wanted to ask, and I remember thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I had paid any attention to a doorkeeper. The whole business of interviewers is to be superior to doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not bring myself to disregard the old saint, who, after all, was only acting on instructions. It would be terrible to be allowed into Heaven and then behave in a vulgar way.

After racking my brains for a start I asked God if there was anything that was interesting Him in particular just at the moment.

He smiled.

"As it happens," He said, "there is. Only this morning I was looking down over London, and almost for the first time I noticed something that gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; but then there is so much pathos----

"I noticed all the little gardens. I don't mean the gardens where there are gardeners; I mean the tiny square yards among the stones and squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally fight for life and would never live at all if they were not lovingly tended. Sometimes there is a rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and then the window-boxes--they give Me pleasure too, much more than Corporation ornamental bedding ever could. Some of these little gardens," He said, "and the gallant struggle they make to bring beauty into ugly places, call tears to the eyes"; and I believe He meant it, for I watched Him. "The poor souls," He murmured, "the poor, brave souls."

"You mentioned Corporation carpet-bedding just now, Sir," I said. "You must have noticed that English gardens are infinitely more reckless and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I don't know what flowers were like, Sir, when You began, but every year sees new varieties come into being--more lovely delphiniums, more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, more delicate daffodils, and every year more people lavish themselves on herbaceous borders and wild gardens."

"I have certainly noticed it," said God, "and it has given Me immense satisfaction. I know who is chiefly responsible for it too," He added, "and her name is very highly honoured here."

And then I woke up.

Here it ended, but at the foot of the page was written: "Dear Miss Staveley, I hope this hasn't bored you. I thought I should like you to know that I now and then have a thought beyond book selling.

"Yours sincerely, "PATRICK ST. QUENTIN."

Patrick was in the shop that evening when Ben left.

He said nothing, but looked expectant.

"Good night, Mr. St. Quentin," said Ben, holding out her hand. "But really I ought to be cross with you because you made me neglect my work for over an hour."

Patrick glowed.

"You have given me a totally new God," she said, "and I'm going home to think about Him."

XXXIX

Guy drove straight from the station to Ben's office. Like Cecil, he, too, was bronzed and hard and the typical soldier with his little trim moustache, but he looked worried.

He embraced her with ardour. "You're very pretty," he said. "I'd forgotten."

"Nonsense," said Ben. "I'm a 'capable woman'; no more and no less."

He held er at arm's length. "You're very attractive," he said. "I can't think why you're not married."

"I've given you one reason," said Ben. "'Capable women' remain free."

"Every woman should be married," said Guy.

"Especially Melanie," said Ben, laughing. But Guy did not laugh. His face clouded.

"Oh, my hat!" he said. "That's what I came to talk to you about. Before I went home even. By the way, how is the governor?"

"Just the same," said Ben. "His capacity for bearing other people's calamities with fortitude, as somebody said, develops every day."

"And the step?" he asked.

"Oh, she's all right," said Ben; "you'll like her."

"Rolls, too, doesn't she?" Guy inquired.

"Rolls," said Ben.

"Does she let the governor touch it?" asked Guy.

"How little you seem to know of your own father!" said Ben. "And I thought of you as a wise child."

"I may have been once," said Guy, "but that's all over. Oh, the mess I've been getting into!"

"What kind of a mess?" Ben asked anxiously.

"On the boat," said Guy.

"Cards?" she asked.

"No, I wish it was. No, I've--well, the fact is, Ben, my dear, I'm engaged."

"I know that," said Ben. "You've been engaged for years. Don't Melanie and I live together, and don't I see her watching for the postman?"

"Oh, cut that out," said Guy, with a groan. "That's not the engagement I mean. I'm engaged to someone else, someone I met on the boat."

"My dear Guy," said Ben, "this is awful."

"Don't I know it?" said Guy.

"But I mean for Melanie," said Ben.

"For both of us," said Guy.

"Can't you break off the new affair?" Ben asked.

"I suppose I could if I wanted to," said Guy. "But I don't. I'm potty about her. The other thing was a ghastly mistake. Surely," he went on, "you would rather I discovered the mistake while there was yet time than go on with it and ruin both our lives? I know it sounds like a novel, but you know what I mean."

"Yes," said Ben, "I quite agree with that. But I wonder if it hasn't been too quick for you to be sure about yourself? You've known one girl five years and the other less than five weeks."

"That's true," said Guy. "But I don't think time means much. What about love at first sight?"

"I know," said Ben. "But liner love--especially Indian liner love--is supposed to be particularly misleading."

"This isn't," said Guy firmly. "This is the goods. I may be impulsive," he went on, "but I'm not an ass; at any rate I'm not a silly ass. I've kept my eyes open, and I'll bet you that for every marriage that has gone wrong after a very short engagement I can show you two that have gone equally wrong after a long one."

"I think that's exceedingly probable," said Ben, with a sigh. "What I am thinking is not that you are any less likely to be happy with your new girl than with Melanie; I am thinking of Melanie herself and what is to be done about her. What do you mean to do? She's expecting you to-day; looking forward to it. What do you mean to do?"

"Well," said Guy, "that's just it. I was wondering if you would help me, if you would explain."

Ben laughed bitterly. "Me again!" she said. "'Always go to Ben when you're in a mess!' Has the liner girl got any money?" she asked.

"Money! What's money?" said Guy. "Don't be squalid."

"Melanie's two hundred a year might be very useful," said Ben.

"You're too late," said Guy. He pulled at his absurd moustache. "But if you wouldn't mind breaking it to Melanie tactfully, and letting her down gently, you'd be a brick. And I'm sure you could; no one could do it better. And, by Jove! you advertise to do it too--'Domestic Problems.' Now compared with this one, all other domestic problems are 'also rans.' Be a darling, Ben, and smooth things with Melanie. After all, she's not a child; she knows that in this kind of matter minds often change."

"I know Melanie pretty well," said Ben, "and I should guess you're making a very foolish mistake. She may look bored and take too little trouble to make you her slave, but she's true as steel and she's as fond of you as she can be. And another thing, she's always amusing; and from what I know of life, a girl who is always amusing is not to be lightly turned down. It isn't fair to break a long engagement like this, without seeing her again first."

"Oh, as to that," said Guy, "engagements are being broken every day; why not ours? You will help me, won't you?"

Ben stood up. "No, Guy," she said, "I won't. Not like that, anyway. Usually when people ask me to do things I comply. But not if I don't believe I ought to. In your case I am certain that you, and you alone, are the person to explain. It would be very cowardly not to, and you are a soldier and therefore not a coward. You owe it to Melanie to tell her yourself, face to face; and the sooner you do it, the better. That's my last word."

"I think you're very selfish," said Guy.

"I can't help what you think," said Ben. "That's my last word. She'll be at home after five. I shan't get back till seven or later. And now I must earn my living."

Guy went off like a bear, and Ben spent a wretched day thinking about Melanie's misery and deploring the fickleness of men and Staveleys.

She was therefore the more rejoiced when on reaching Aubrey Walk she heard Melanie singing in her room and found her arraying herself in her best, preparatory to dining with Guy and going to the play.

Ben expressed no surprise.

"How did Guy strike you?" she asked, after a while.

"At first he seemed awfully gloomy," said Melanie. "He didn't even seem to want to kiss me. But after a little while he got quite like his old self again, only more so, and was the nicest thing on earth, and he wants the wedding directly. This week if possible, he said; but of course that's absurd."

At that moment Guy's taxi was heard and he came bounding up the stairs, while Melanie retired to complete her toilet.

He put his fingers on his lips as he met his sister. "Not a word," he said. "It's all right. That other affair was a mistake. Those Indian liners, you know. That proverb about being off with the old love is a very sound one, and almost directly I saw Mel again I knew I didn't want to be on with the new."

"Have you told the new?" Ben asked.

"Not yet," he said. "I was wondering if you----"

Ben drew back. "Not I!" she exclaimed.

Guy burst into roars of triumphant laughter. "You bought it!" he cried, and roared again. "What I was going to say," he went on, "was that I was wondering if you would--post this letter to her. I haven't got a stamp."

Ben threw a cushion at him with masterly accuracy, as Melanie, all radiance and joy, came into the room.

XL

Merrill, looking very attractive in her weeds, sat in Ben's room, interfering not a little with "The Beck and Call's" machinery. But that, of course, is the principal industry of all widows who call on business people.

"I call it very selfish and horrid of Alicia," she said. "Here she is, about to marry this rich old ironmonger----"

"Ironmaster," Ben corrected.

"Ironmaster, then. It's the same thing," said Merrill. "Here she is, anyway, about to be happy herself and have all her worries about money and about the boys removed for ever, and she has the cheek to say that I oughtn't even to see Roland--that's Captain Andrews, you know--for another three months. What do you think of that?"

"Well," said Ben, "I disagree. I think you should do exactly as you want to."

"And marry at once?"

"Certainly, if you want to. It's nobody's affair but yours and his. You are definitely engaged, aren't you?"

"Of course," said Merrill.

"And there's nothing to prevent you marrying except the possibility of public opinion disapproving?"

"No," said Merrill, "but people are very horrid."

"You mustn't mind people," said Ben. "Surely you know that? If we mind people life isn't worth living. The only thing to consider is your happiness. If you had been happy with Egbert you would not want to marry again so soon, or possibly not at all; but as you weren't happy with him I don't see any reason for you to wait."

"The whole question of time is absurd," said Merrill. "Who is it that fixes the interval? Why should a year be all right and eleven months all wrong? It is ridiculous--with life galloping on in the monstrous way it does."

"Well," said Ben, with a despairing glance at the letters waiting to be attended to, "the remedy is yours. Defy public opinion, and marry next week. Go and be registered; get a special licence; anything. But do it."

"I was wondering," said Merrill, "whether we might not marry now secretly and go abroad, and then come back and announce it. That would kill two birds with one stone: we should be married at once, and all those horrid cats, including darling Alicia, would be silenced."

"You never silence horrid cats," said Ben. "And I'm against anything secret. And I don't suppose Captain Andrews would care about it either."

"I think he would do as I wish," said Merrill, with a confident smile.

Only if he liked the wish himself, thought Ben, remembering the quiet decisiveness of the plus-four warrior; but all she said was that it was a pity that Merrill was such a coward.

"A coward!" exclaimed the widow. "How can you? You are as bad as Alicia. And you have been a great disappointment to me, too. I always thought of you as being so kind and comforting, and all you do is to look absent-minded and call me a coward."

"My dear," said Ben, "I have encouraged you in every possible way. I have even urged you to marry at once, which is what you say you want to do."

"I don't know that I do want it," said Merrill. "I don't want to do anything that would be unfair to Roland. I don't mind about myself, even though you think I do, but I should never forgive myself if through marrying too soon Roland lost anyone's respect. I am going now," she said sadly. "I am sorry to have troubled you."

"Good-bye, darling," said Ben. "You have never looked prettier. If you want someone really sympathetic to talk to, step in the shop downstairs and ask Mr. Harford to recommend you a good book. He's the one in tweeds."

"I was thinking of doing so," said Merrill. "I noticed him as I came in. Good-bye; I hope you'll be nicer next time."

"Good-bye, darling," said Ben. "You have never looked prettier. I think Roland the most enviable of men."

"Cat!" said Merrill, returning suddenly and flinging her arms round Ben's neck. "No, not cat--sweetest of hearts! But oh, I'm so miserable!"

She cried luxuriously for a minute and then jumped up smiling.

"I shall let Roland decide," she said.

XLI