Part 10

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.”