Part 11

“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.”

HUBERT

HUBERT

Julia Stane Willow passed into the cool library, took off her hat, pitched this on to a table, and flung herself into a chair.

“If you want a drink,” she said shortly, “toll the bell.”

Her _fiancé_ limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes.

“What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of them.”

Julia shook back her curls.

“That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said.

“What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s hole?”

“They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.”

“Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.”

“I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .”

“Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too. Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before bursting once more upon an expectant world.”

“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .”

“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His _fiancée_ choked. “But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn their keep.”

Julia frowned.

“The first house we saw had three.”

“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .”

Here a servant entered.

“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess.

“Please.”

“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.”

“Very good, miss.”

As the door closed—

“Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork mat down. I’m only out to——”

“You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll get your way.”

Hubert Challenger sighed.

“‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can count me out.”

“Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——”

“Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His _fiancée_ stiffened. “To a certain extent. But that extent has been reached.”

“Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.”

“I won’t say it wasn’t,” said Hubert. “First, because it was the forty-second covert we had drawn, and, secondly, because the best is good enough for me. When I’ve been offered a peach, you can bury the cooking apples under the lilacs. But that’s neither here nor there. Bed me down where you like, my dear, and I’ll be all grateful.”