Part 6

“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently let you down, but that’s irrelevant.”

“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always used _Baladeuse_, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it twice, I give it to Beatrice.”

Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with an offensive stare. Presently he sighed.

“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of _’Ard an’ Bright_. . . . Oh, _très intéressant_.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the parable—you had another—er—_lapsus cordis_ . . . got momentarily sick of _Baladeuse_ and, forgetful of jolly old _’Ard an’ Bright_, felt impelled to try _What are the Wild Oats Saying_, or some other frankincense?”

Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance.

Then she raised her sweet eyebrows.

“And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and . . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?”

Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette.

“I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.”

Katharine leaned forward.

“And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the same.”

For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes.

Then—

“I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to think that _’Ard an’ Bright_ was the only serious rival _Baladeuse_ ever had. Besides . . . I’m sure _I_ shall win,” he added confidently. “You can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones I used to pull off after breakfast.”

Katharine rose to her feet.

“I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one thing, Gill.”

“Of course,” said Giles gallantly.

“Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with me until—until the fight’s over.”

Her husband drew himself up.

“My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated. “And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like displacing _Baladeuse_?”

Katharine nodded.

* * * * *

Five crowded weeks had slipped by.

The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley had floated into the past.

People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly done.

Of late, the Festivals had not met nearly so much.

The reason for this is illuminating.

Each was declining a number of invitations.

Since, however, they never discussed their engagements, Katharine imagined that Giles was still ‘going strong,’ while the latter, lying wakeful in bed, pictured his wife dancing night after night into the dawn.

Fantasy did not stop there.

They had made two of the house-party gathered at Castle Charing a fortnight before. The weather had been inviting, and Katharine and Pat Lafone had been inseparable. When they were not playing golf, they were out in the car. On two out of three evenings they had been badly late for dinner, arriving at the table breathless and simultaneously. And Pat was twenty-seven and full of life. He was also most attractive in looks and deeds. . . . Then the party had dispersed, and two days later Giles had passed the pair, riding together in the Row. . . . His wife had waved, and Pat had shouted joyfully, but Festival had winced.

There is an old superiority of horse over foot which, other things being equal, may make itself felt. It is, I suppose, traditional. The knight went mounted. It may, of course, be merely a matter of inches. The ability of the equestrian to look down upon such as go walking is not to be denied. His is a commanding position—of which the pedestrian may be ridiculously conscious.

Wishing very much that he had been riding, Giles told himself not to be a fool and, on reaching the Club, rang up Madrigal Chicele and asked her to lunch. Afterwards, he drove her to Hurlingham, passing Katharine upon the road.

Madrigal had been very civil at Castle Charing. Her husband had been killed in the War, after a month of wedlock. That was six years ago, and if Mrs. Chicele yet mourned, she mourned in secret. She was extremely good-looking and had a delightful laugh. . . .

The next day, the four met in Bond Street—with two open taxis between them. They exchanged appropriate banter. Katharine’s and Giles’ contributions were suspiciously bright.

The following Thursday morning Captain and Mrs. Festival received two several communications by the same post.

_Wednesday Evening._ _Dear Gill_,

_I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I must put you off to-morrow. I’ve had so many late nights lately that one more or less has come to matter quite a lot._

_I’m sure you’ll understand._

_Yours_, _Kate_.

Though she did not say so, Mrs. Festival had spoiled three sheets of notepaper phrasing that note.

_Wednesday._ _Dear Kate_,

_Will you forgive me if I don’t come to-morrow? Jonah wants me to play at Roehampton against the Red Hats, and they’re sure to want me to dine and talk shop. You know._

_Yours_, _Gill_.

That was Captain Festival’s third attempt.

Their reception of their respective bow-strings was anything but cordial.

Staring at the familiar handwriting, Katharine went very white.

“So,” she said quietly. “Well, I’ve only myself to thank. I’ve whipped off the finest husband that ever a woman had—with the most natural result. . . . He’s turning elsewhere. Madrigal, of course.”

She bit her lip savagely.

Suddenly she remembered the letter she had written the night before.

“My God!” she cried, and clapped her hand to her mouth. “He’ll think I meant it, of course. _I meant him to, and he will._ It’ll drive him into her arms! I’ve cleared his way! He’ll have no compunction _now_. . . .”

She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face.

“Why did I write?” she wailed. “Why did I ever write? If only I’d waited . . . if only . . .”

She began to weep passionately.

Giles, fresh from his bath, stared at his letter as at a death-warrant.

He read it through twice, carefully.

Then he sat down on his bed, sweating, and read it again.

Then he lowered the document to his knee and sat staring at his wardrobe with eyes that saw nothing.

Finally, he gave a short laugh and, getting upon his feet, proceeded to brush his hair, whistling softly. . . .

Half-way through the operation, he started violently.

“My God!” he cried. “_That blasted letter of mine._ . . .”

Brushes in hand, he gazed at his reflection in the glass.

“Oh, you poisonous fool!” he hissed. “You blundering, blunt-nosed idiot, you’ve put the burning lid on and screwed it down. You’ve torn it—bent it irreparably. Of course, she’ll think I meant it. _I meant her to._ . . . And now—I’ve put myself out of Court. I’ve told her to run away and play. I’ve pushed her off!”

He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall.

“Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate! . . . What have I done, my sweet? What have I done?”

* * * * *

Two hours had gone labouring, the second of which Captain Festival had spent perambulating Lincoln’s Inn Fields and consulting his watch. His nervous demeanour was such that by ten o’clock he was being observed by the police. On the stroke of the hour, however, the suspect disappeared. . . .

As the door closed behind him—

“Forsyth,” gasped Giles, “she’s turned me down.”

“No?”—incredulously.

“It’s a shell-proof fact. And I’ve just tied it up, nailed it down and sunk it in the bright, blue sea. I warn you, I ought to be removed. I’m a public danger.” He began to search his pockets with nervous inefficacy. “Where’s that blinkin’ letter gone?”

“Sit down,” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “And please begin at the beginning. I’ve another appointment in——”

“Now, don’t rush me,” said Giles. “I’m all of a doohah, I am. And if you rush me, I shall burst into tears.” He mopped his brow feverishly. “About six weeks ago . . .”

The tale came pelting.

The lawyer, who had given a frenzied Katharine an appointment for half-past ten, began to see daylight.

“And there you are,” concluded Giles violently. “That letter means she’s attracted to Pat Lafone. I’ll bet it cost her a hell of a lot to write it, because—well, it’s a pretty thick thing to tell your husband, isn’t it? And now she’s had _my_ letter, which tells her in so many words to count me out and go full blast ahead.”

Forsyth fingered his chin.

“What did you write it for?”

“Ask the fowls of the air,” said Giles wearily. “They might be able to tell you. I can’t. I suppose I had some rotten, weak-kneed idea of frightening her back into my arms. Of course, it was a hopeless thing to do. But when you’re desperate you do do hopeless things.”

“Why ‘desperate’?” said Forsyth.

“Because I can’t stand it,” shouted his client. “I’m not a graven image. For nearly three blinkin’ months I’ve stood and watched all London swarming about my wife: I’ve smirked and bowed and scraped and pretended I didn’t care: I’ve sat up and begged, like the rest, for a dance or a smile: and once a blistering week I’ve met her across our own table and made imitation back-chat and done the grateful guest. . . . And the last three times I went there she gave me grocer’s port.” He raised his eyes to heaven and clenched his teeth. “If ever I get a chance, I’ll break that butler’s back. I believe that’s half the reason I wrote that blasted note.”

Here the telephone bell intervened.

“Excuse me,” said Forsyth. “Yes? . . . Very well. Mr. Maple’s out, isn’t he? . . . Then show them into his room and ask them to wait.”

As he replaced the receiver—

“What the devil am I to do?” said Captain Festival.

“Nothing,” said Forsyth.

“_Nothing?_”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, the man’s mad,” wailed Giles. “I’ve infected him.”

“As you and your wife’s trustee, I say that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest. Your hands are tied. And now. . . .”

He rose to his feet.

“Forsyth,” said Giles, “be human. D’you mean to say I’ve got to sit still and watch my wife push off with another man?”

“When you came here,” said the lawyer, “seeking a deed of separation, I warned you both that you were playing with fire. You thanked me handsomely—and then deliberately instructed me to sow the wind.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And now I must see this fellow. You sit here and smoke. I shan’t be long.”

He left the room swiftly.

As he passed into Maple’s room, Katharine rose at him.

“Mr. Forsyth, I’ve bought it. Giles has found somebody else. I never dreamed it was serious, but I got his letter this morning.”

She thrust the mischievous document into his hand.

Forsyth read it carefully.

Ere he could open his mouth—

“He wrote that last night,” said Katharine. “That means he’s got off with Madrigal Chicele. And——”

“He doesn’t say so,” said Forsyth, turning the letter about.

“I know. But it does. You can take it from me. Listen. Giles doesn’t love her, really. Not yet, at any rate. He still loves me. But now that he thinks I don’t care, she—she’ll just romp home.”

“Why should he think that?”

“I told him I didn’t,” cried Katharine. “In so many words.”

Forsyth put a hand to his head.

“But if you do care, why did you——”

“Because I cared so much that I couldn’t go on.”

“Sit down, won’t you?” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “I can’t give you long, for I’ve got someone waiting upstairs. But——”

“For God’s sake,” wailed Katharine, “don’t rush me. As it is, I’m beside myself. And if you——”

“Now, please go quietly,” said Forsyth. “I’m going to state the facts. Correct me if I go wrong. Little dreaming that your husband had written this letter to you, you gave him to understand that, so far as you were concerned, he was free to place his affections where he pleased.”

“Quite right.”

“That you did in the hope of bringing him to your feet.”

“Yes. It sounds insane, but women are funny like that.”

“Your immediate fear is that, in view of the attachment which you say his letter discloses, your rash communication will have the opposite effect and drive him into a certain lady’s arms.”

“Exactly,” said Katharine. “You’ve got a magician’s brain, but let that pass. What, in Heaven’s name, Mr. Forsyth, am I to do?”

“I think you must wait,” said Forsyth.

“_Wait?_”

The lawyer nodded.

“You must wait for him to move.”

“But he’s _moving_,” screamed Katharine. “He’s moving into her arms. It’s more than a million to one he’s with her now.”

“I hardly think——”

“Of course he is. And yet you tell me to wait!” Mrs. Festival threw back her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. “What d’you think I’ve been doing for the last three months? I’ll tell you. I’ve been waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Giles to come back. Waiting, with a jest on my tongue and a picture-postcard smile. Watching other women rushing after my husband, biting and scratching and lying to catch his eye, cadging seats in his car, eating out of his hand. . . . Once a week he’s come to our house as a guest. Once a week we’ve met across our own table and been polite—_polite_! The last two or three times I thought his manner seemed strained, as if he was upset about something. But I never dreamed. . . .” Her lips were trembling, and she stopped. The next moment she had herself in hand. “I tell you,” she cried, “I’ve stood up and grinned and borne it, till I can’t endure any more. I wrote that wretched note in desperation. I thought . . . I hoped. . . . And now you tell me to wait!”

“As you and your husband’s trustee,” said Forsyth faithfully, “I say that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest.”

“Oh, blow what I covenanted. I’m not going to be bound by any rotten papers. Besides, I never read it.”

“You signed it,” said Forsyth mercilessly, getting upon his feet.

“Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “you told me to come to you if I was in trouble. Don’t send me empty away.”

“I must see these people,” said Forsyth. “You stay where you are. I’m sorry I had no time to get any flowers, but you were rather precipitate. I’ll tell you what,” he added, as if voicing an afterthought. “Would you like to speak to your husband while I’m upstairs? You know. Just ring up casually, by way of clearing the air?”

“He’s sure to be out,” said Katharine. “With Mad——”

“We can but try,” said Forsyth. “Of course, if you’ld rather not . . .”

“I’ld love to,” said Katharine. “I don’t know what on earth I can say, but——”

“The time will provide the words,” said Forsyth, and left the room. . . .

He found Giles pacing the floor like a caged beast.

“While I’ve been away,” he said quickly, “I’ve had an idea.”

“Go on,” said Giles, moistening his lips. “Go on.”

“Would you like to ring your wife up?”

Captain Festival reflected.

Then—

“She won’t be there,” he said. “She’s with Pat, for a monkey.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

“You can try,” he said. “Don’t, if you don’t want to, but I don’t think a telephone call is molestation, and, at least, you’ld be in touch.”

“All right,” said Giles. “I don’t know what to say, but——”

“I’ll tell them to get you on,” said Forsyth, opening the door.

“Here! Don’t leave me,” said Giles. “Don’t go away. Supposing she’s in?”

“Well, it’s not much good if she isn’t, is it?”

“D’you mind saying that again?” said Giles weakly. “I—I wasn’t ready. Besides, you can’t say ‘isn’t is it.’ It’s not euphonious. I—I say . . .”

But the lawyer was gone.

Outside his own door, Forsyth leaned against the wall and bowed before a paroxysm of laughter as a reed before the gale. Then he pulled himself together and sought the switchboard.

“Put my room through to Mr. Maple’s and ring them both up. Then plug me in. I want to overhear.”

“Very good, sir.”

After a moment’s interval—

“Er—er—hullo,” said Giles, wiping the sweat from his face. “Hullo.”

“Is—is that you, Gill?” said Katharine tremulously.

“Er—yes, dear. How—how are you?”

“Oh, all right, thanks. How—how are you?”

“Oh, full of beans, thanks . . .”

There was a dreadful silence.

Forsyth began to shake with laughter.

“Are you there, Gill?”—anxiously.

“Yes, dear.”

“That’s right. I was afraid we’d been cut off.”

“No, I’m here, all right. . . . How—how are you? Oh, I’ve said that, haven’t I? I mean——”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Gill?”

“Right as rain, dear, right as rain. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Katharine. “I thought you sounded—er—not quite yourself.”

“Well, I’m not really. I—I had a dream last night.”

“Did you? What did you dream?”

“I—I forget now,” stammered Giles. “But—you know. It’s sort of unsettled me.”

“Well, do be careful, dear. It worries me to hear you so—so unlike yourself.”

“Does it? I mean—am I?”

Forsyth writhed.

“Gill, what _is_ the matter?”

There was another silence.

Then—

“I say, Kate,” said Giles.

“Yes?”

“I—I got your letter.”

“Did you?” said Katharine. “So did I. I mean——”

“Yes?”

“What?” said Katharine disconcertingly.

“I only said ‘Yes,’” said Giles. “You know. _Pour encourager._ Go on, dear.”

His wife braced herself.

“Gill.”

“Yes, dear?”

“I rang you up to——”

“Did you?” said Giles. “When?”

“_Now._”

“Now? Oh, I see. I suppose they said I was out. Never mind.”

“But why should they say you were out?”

“Well, mainly because,” said Giles, “I don’t happen to be in.”

“Gill,” cried his wife, “what on earth d’you mean?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Giles desperately. “I’m that badgered and bewildered, I can’t think straight. As I was saying, I rang you up to——”

“When?” said Katharine.

A choking noise was succeeded by another silence.

With his eyes closed and tears running down his cheeks, Forsyth clung to his receiver helplessly.

At length—

“Kate,” said Captain Festival in a hollow voice.

“Yes?”—faintly.

“Don’t think I’m blaming you, darling, but I rather gather you’re thinking of displacing _Baladeuse_.”

“I’m _not_!” shrieked Katharine. “I’m _not_! It’s—it’s all a terrible mistake. I know you’ve heard someone bleating, but don’t think——”

“I haven’t!” yelled Giles. “It’s false! No one’s bleated for yiles—I mean mears. Not since you did. An’ no one’ll ever blinkin’ well bleat again. . . . There! I’ll make you a present of that. I’ve wanted to say it for months, but I didn’t know how.” Hurriedly Forsyth replaced his receiver. “And, as for _Baladeuse_—well, I’m thankful she’s still on top—thankful, my darling. D’you hear? Thankful. . . . Of course, if at any time, in a mad moment, you felt like another dart at jolly old _’Ard an’ Bright_ . . .”

For a second his wife hesitated.

Then she bent to the mouthpiece.

“_Ma-a-a._”

The noise Captain Festival made, descending the stairs, brought Katharine and Forsyth pell-mell into the hall.

Husband and wife stared at each other open-mouthed. . . .

The lawyer watched them in silence, one hand to his lips, the other behind his back.

Presently their gaze shifted and fell upon Forsyth.

“But what a man!” said Giles, laying his hands upon the lawyer’s left arm.

“What a friend!” said Katharine, laying hers upon his right.

“What a trustee!” said Forsyth, raising his eyes to heaven.

“He’s going to dine with us to-night,” said Giles.

“Yes,” said Katharine. “And we’ll show him our bathroom.”

“Two’s company,” said Forsyth, shaking his head.

“Thanks to you,” said Giles, shaking his arm.

“So’s three,” said Katharine, shaking the other.

“That’s over,” said Forsyth, and sighed. “Here’s the Deed.”

“Oh, we’re tired of that,” said Katharine.

“Yes,” said Giles. “We’re going to give it to Beatrice.”

SPRING

SPRING

Willoughby Gray Bagot, gentleman, sat back in his chair.

From where he was, he could look conveniently out of the broad windows, across the shadowy lawns, and on to the stately timber of the sheltered park. He did so thoughtfully, tapping his teeth with his pen. Presently he frowned and, leaning forward, set a sheet of notepaper before him and proceeded to write.

_Dear Sirs_,—

_I believe your advice to be good._

_I will therefore accept Mr. Harp’s offer and sell him Chancery—park, residence and furniture, as it stands, for forty-five thousand pounds, on one condition._

_The condition is this._

_The purchaser shall take into his service an individual whom I will indicate, to perform the duties of Groom of the Chambers at Chancery, at a wage of fifty pounds a year. This man shall receive no board, but shall be permitted to occupy the lodge at the West gate of the park, rent-free. So long as he behaves himself and faithfully discharges his office, Mr. Harp shall retain him in his service._

_I appreciate that this is an unusual request, but the man knows the house and its contents as I know them myself and is deeply attached to them. The service he will give will be worth having._

_Yours faithfully,_ _Willoughby Gray Bagot._ _Messrs. Matthew & Scarlet,_ _Solicitors,_ _Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C._

Bagot read over his letter with tightened lips. Then he copied it carefully and, slipping the original into an envelope, sealed, stamped and addressed this forthwith. As he turned it about, the crest on the back caught his eye—a rose in a mailed fist. For a moment he stared at it: then he turned and glanced at the same emblem cut in the stone of the aged mantelpiece. . . .

Presently he sighed.

“_Sic transit_,” he said shortly, and, clapping a hat on his head, rose and passed out of the room.

It was true.

The glory was passing. Very soon it would have passed.

There had been a Gray Bagot at Chancery since Harry Plantagenet’s day. In fact, that terrible king had given a Bagot the estate in return for valour. That it was not his to give is beside the point. Men took what they could get in those days, as they do now. And now, Mr. Albert Harp was taking Chancery.

Like the original Bagot, Mr. Harp owed his good fortune to his prowess in time of War. But, while Gray Bagot had won Chancery at the cost of an eye, an arm and a slash on the thigh, which only the bone stopped, Mr. Harp’s succession was due to a judicious administration of his business, which was that of a purveyor of pork.

_Sic transit_ . . .

Willoughby had done what he could. But when he came back from the War, things were in evil case.

A cold rain of demands beat upon his diminished income; the stream of outgoings was like to burst its banks: over all, the cloud of a heavy mortgage, once no bigger than a man’s hand, was blotting out the heaven.

Of his passionate love for Chancery, Willoughby took his capital and gambled upon the Exchange. The franc was bound to appreciate. . . .