“Lucky again, partner,” commented Westenhanger, breaking into Eileen
Cressage’s thoughts as he took up the scoring-block. “That’s game and
rubber, Douglas. Your mind must be wandering.”
Douglas Fairmile had glanced down the room to where a fair-haired girl
was sitting with a rather red-faced man. Douglas’s brows contracted
slightly. That fellow Morchard had attempted to monopolise Cynthia
this evening; but surely anyone could see that the girl was bored. A
persistent creature, Morchard—rather too persistent at times, Douglas
felt. Then at the sound of Westenhanger’s voice, his attention came
back to the bridge-table.
“Game and rubber?” he repeated. “Sorry, partner. My fault entirely.
You see, I’m getting rusty in auction nowadays. It’s nearly gone out
at my club; nobody plays it any more. We’re all on to this new game
that’s just come in.”
“New game? What new game?” demanded Westenhanger, arranging the cards
for his shuffle. “Have the Cardsharpers rediscovered Old Maid or the
simple joys of Happy Families? Out with it, Douglas.”
Douglas Fairmile made a gesture as though apologising for
Westenhanger.
“Tut! Tut! He’s jealous, poor fellow. My fault for mentioning the
Romarin Club. A sore subject with Conway, and no wonder. You know, we
have an entrance examination for candidates: test ’em in following
suit and remembering what’s trump. And somehow Conway didn’t get in.
Or else he was afraid to enter. A sad business, anyhow; don’t let’s
dwell on it. So he calls us the Cardsharpers out of spite.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton began to deal. Douglas passed the box of
cigarettes to Eileen; and, when she refused, took one himself.
Westenhanger looked at him with feigned anxiety.
“I notice a certain tendency to wander in your talk, of late. This
inconsecutiveness of mind is growing on you, Douglas. Do you ever find
yourself, in the morning, putting on your jacket first and your
waistcoat afterwards? Pull yourself together. Squails Up-to-Date, or
something like that, was what you were trying to tell us about before
you began to ramble.”
“Oh! Suspension Bridge, that’s it. Suspension Bridge. Never heard of
it? Well, well. These soulless mechanics! You take the two of spades
out of the pack, put in a joker instead; and then play according to
auction rules. You’ve no notion of the superior feeling it gives you
when you go No Trump with five aces in your hand. Confidence, that’s
the word! A splendid game.”
“Splendid!” Westenhanger conceded, sarcastically. “Invite me to take a
hand in the inaugural game, will you? It’ll be an historic occasion,
no doubt; and I might get my name into the newspapers.”
Douglas looked hurt.
“He doesn’t believe me, Eileen; he thinks I’m . . . Oh, sorry!”
He picked up his cards, and the game continued. For the third time in
succession, Eileen Cressage laid down her hand with an inaudible sigh
of relief. Being dummy, she could think about other things than the
table before her. She had never been a keen bridge-player; her
card-memory was too weak for anything beyond the most obvious tactics.
And on this evening especially, her interest in the game was of the
slightest. She played mechanically; and she had quite failed to note
how, time and again, a skilful intervention by her partner had
extricated her from a risky declaration.
As Westenhanger gathered up their first trick, her mind went back to
her ever-present money difficulties. Some bills had reached her by the
last post. Somehow, bills always dropped in at that time; and she had
begun to dread the very sight of an unsealed envelope among her
correspondence. If these wretched things had come in the morning, the
affairs of the day might have helped to put them out of her mind; but
when they arrived after dinner, they seemed to rivet her attention
through the whole night.
The problems of a girl trying to keep up a decent appearance on a tiny
income seemed to be approaching an insoluble state. Her quarter’s
income was nearly exhausted; and yet something would have to be done.
It was no use approaching her trustees in the hope of anticipating her
income for the next three months. She had tried that before; and all
she had got was a lecture on the folly of over-spending. It appeared
that the thing was impossible under the will. Besides, the trustees
were simply lawyers, without a spark of personal interest in her
affairs or herself. So far as they were concerned, Eileen Cressage was
a name on a deed-box or a docket. No help there, obviously.
And yet something would have to be done. She could pay some of her
creditors and leave the rest of the affairs standing; but which people
ought she to attend to first? Her mind was busy with a sort of jig-saw
puzzle with the bills as a picture and the available money as the
pieces; but with half the fragments missing, it was a hopeless
business. One fact was evident: some of these bills would have to be
settled, and settled soon.
With an effort she put the whole affair at the back of her mind and
tried to divert her attention. But her first glance across the room
brought the thing back to her from a different angle. There was her
host, old Rollo Dangerfield, sitting in a despondent attitude beside
the window. What had he to be low-spirited about? If she herself owned
the Dangerfield Talisman, her troubles would be conjured away. The
thing was worth £50,000 on the last occasion when it had been valued;
and the price of diamonds had gone up a good deal since then.
Her eyes passed to where Mrs. Brent and the American collector sat.
Neither of them had money worries. At sixty, Mrs. Brent seemed to get
a good deal out of life; and the steam yacht in the bay at the foot of
the garden was a fair proof that a few hundred pounds one way or the
other was not likely to trouble her.
A rustle of the cards brought Eileen’s attention to the bridge table.
She leaned back a little in her chair and glanced, with an envy which
was quite devoid of malice, at the three players intent on their game.
Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s husband had been one of those hard-faced men
who had made fortunes in the War. When he died she had got the money;
and her enemies said that the hard face had been bequeathed also, in a
codicil to his will. She certainly had a very keen appreciation of the
value of a Treasury note.
Then there was Douglas Fairmile, with a big private income. His only
worry at present was whether Cynthia Pennard would marry him or not.
No great need for anxiety there, Eileen reflected. Cynthia wasn’t
throwing herself at his head, certainly; but it was one of those
affairs which are bound to come right in the end. If only her own
affairs would look as bright!
Finally, her partner, Conway Westenhanger, very obviously hadn’t a
care in the world. Those mechanical inventions of his were known to be
small gold mines; he wasn’t in love with anyone; and he got on well
with people. What more could a man want?
Half unconsciously she compared the two men. Douglas was once
described to her as “one of those delightful people who can always be
cheery without getting on your nerves with it.” He had the gift of
playing the fool in season without looking like a fool while he was
doing it. One laughed with him, always, and never at him. Conway
Westenhanger was a more complex person, but just as attractive in his
own way. She liked his mouth; its clean-cut lines seemed to have
something sympathetic in their curves; and the thinker’s
sharply-marked vertical lines between the eyebrows rather added to the
attractiveness of his face.
Mrs. Brent broke the silence, addressing her host. “Rollo! would you
mind if we have that window opened further? The heat’s almost
unbearable to-night.”
Old Dangerfield came out of his brown study with a start, made a
gesture of acquiescence, and threw open the window to its full extent.
Through the embrasure a faint breath of air wandered in from the outer
twilight, laden with the smell of parched soil and the heavy perfume
of flowers; but it brought no coolness with it.
“I suppose this doesn’t affect you, Mr. Wraxall?” Mrs. Brent turned to
the American beside her. “You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you? Heat waves
won’t trouble you as much as they do me. You’re acclimatised, no
doubt.”
“It’s warm to-night. It’s certainly not what one calls cool. But I’ll
admit that I’ve known it hotter over there. And this air of yours
hasn’t got that used-up feeling about it that city air has. It’s
fresh, even if it’s hot. You’d know it was garden air and not street
air, even if the flowers weren’t there. But you’re wrong about my
being acclimatised. I don’t use New York much in the summer.”
“Of course, you’ve got a country big enough to let you choose your
climate for almost any day in the year, haven’t you? Well, there’s
something to be said for an island. If this heat gets worse I shall
simply take the _Kestrel_ away for a night or two until the hot spell
is over. Another couple of days of this would be unbearable. Luckily
the Dangerfields understand me; they won’t be offended if I disappear
without warning. One would think twice about doing that with most
people, but Friocksheim is a real Liberty Hall.”
“They’ve been very kind in asking me down,” the American explained. “I
didn’t know them; but I got an introduction; and when I explained I
was interested in some of their things, they invited me to stay for a
few days.”
He glanced through the window and across the moonlit bay which
stretched beyond the lawns.
“The _Kestrel_? Little white yacht with copper funnels, lying in the
bay? Is that the one? I saw her as I drove up here this evening.”
“Yes, that’s the _Kestrel_. You liked her looks?”
“Very pretty. Graceful lines, she has. My own yacht’s rather larger;
but she’s not so neat, not so neat. I wanted lots of room on board.”
“The very thing I didn’t want on the _Kestrel_. I use her as a kind of
retreat, Mr. Wraxall, the place for a rest-cure. I’ve never had a
guest on board; there isn’t even a spare cabin. Sometimes I want to
get clean away from everybody; and that was the best way I could think
of for managing it. Callers don’t drop in when one’s fifty miles from
port.”
The American looked at her with interest kindling in his eyes.
“You feel that way, too? That’s interesting. That’s very interesting.
I take it you’re not a philanthropist, then?”
Mrs. Brent shifted her position slightly and looked up at her
neighbour’s clean-shaven face. It was of the long rather than the
square American type, the face of a man with a certain imagination.
“If you mean contributing to charitable funds and that sort of thing,
I’m certainly not philanthropic,” she answered. “I don’t think I’ve
spent a penny in that way during the last ten years. People come
bothering me with tales of sad cases; at least they used to do that.
But once you get the name of being kind-hearted, you’re simply
pestered to death by demands, mostly from frauds. I’ve shed that
reputation long ago. I don’t say I don’t give something here and
there. Everybody does. But unless I see a thing with my own eyes I
refuse to part with a farthing. My eyesight is still fairly good for
my age; and I’m quite able to see a thing for myself without needing
some fussy creature to point it out to me.”
She broke off suddenly and showed her fine teeth in a faint smile.
“You’ve touched there on a thing that always irritates me. I’ve got
rather a bad reputation over it. They call me a skinflint. There’s an
American phrase for that, isn’t there?”
“You mean a tight-wad, perhaps. Yes, that would be it, a tight-wad.”
He dismissed the subject, seeming to think of something else.
“A minute or two back you were saying you wanted to get away from
humanity now and again. I sympathise with you there. I can understand
the feeling. I open the newspaper in the morning and it says a new
fibre has made finer lingerie possible. I don’t use lingerie. Further
on, there’s something else about floor stains. That lacks the personal
appeal. So does the one about candies. My digestion’s too poor for
candies. Then I come across ‘Buy Jones’s Razors.’ I don’t buy Jones’s
razors. Perhaps my man buys them. I don’t know. But you see how it is.
Everywhere one goes these things hit the retina. There’s no escape
from this modern way of pushing things. My own company does it. I get
tired of it. I want to forget Jones’s razors, and Smith’s Confected
Candies, and . . . and . . . dollars, and cents, and the whole
twentieth century. I want to blot it all out of my mind. I want to get
among old things, things that were made long before dollars were
thought of. That’s restful. That’s the kind of thing I like. Something
that looks as if your Queen Elizabeth might have used it, or one of
your Henries. If it’s got a history attached to it, I like it all the
more.”
Mrs. Brent’s face showed a blend of sympathy and amusement.
“So _that’s_ how you became a collector?”
Wraxall smiled also.
“Well, Mrs. Brent, that’s part of the truth. That certainly is a
factor. But there’s more to it than that. You may laugh at me if you
like. You may certainly laugh. But I love these old things for
themselves. It gives me a real pleasure to handle them, just to turn
them over and over and look at them. And to wonder about the people
who wore them. These things mean more to me than all the
history-books. Much more.”
Mrs. Brent’s white-framed face became more sympathetic. She recognised
a kindred spirit in the American, although his line of escape from the
modern world was not the same as her own.
“Don’t forget to see the Dangerfield Talisman before you go, Mr.
Wraxall. They’ll be glad to show it to you and tell you the legend.
There are some photographs of it, too. You might be able to take one
of them back for your collection.”
Mr. Wraxall brushed the suggestion aside.
“Photographs would be no use to me. They haven’t the appeal. No.”
He paused for a moment; then, studying her face, he continued:
“I thought of taking the thing itself back with me in the fall, if it
could be arranged.”
“The Dangerfield Talisman?” Mrs. Brent almost lost her manners in her
astonishment. “You thought of taking that back with you! Why, the
thing’s absurd. They’d sooner part with Friocksheim than with the
Talisman; and they’ve held Friocksheim since before the Conquest.”
“I wouldn’t stick at a few thousand pounds one way or the other. I’d
set my heart on getting that Talisman. I’ve come four thousand miles
for it, specially. That shows I’m interested. I’m keenly interested.
I’m not a bargainer. They’ve only to name their price and I’ll pay
it.”
“But, my dear man, this isn’t a case where money comes in at all,
don’t you see? The thing’s unbuyable, you may take my word for it.”
The American scanned her face carefully.
“I see you mean it,” he commented, “but I came here specially to
procure that Talisman. I couldn’t be content to take your word for it.
Maybe you’re right. Perhaps you know best. But I’ll have to go to
headquarters with my offer and make sure. I’m not doubting what you
say. Not at all. I hadn’t a notion there was any difficulty in the
road. None at all. But you’ll understand that, without doubting what
you say in the very least, I’ve got to make sure?”
Mrs. Brent had recovered from her astonishment.
“Oh, certainly, go ahead. I shan’t feel offended, if that’s what you
mean. But I warn you that it’s quite useless—out of the question.”
The American made a non-committal gesture. Mrs. Brent thought it best
to change the subject.
“This heat seems to be getting worse, if anything. I must really get a
fan. I’m old-fashioned enough to have one.”
She rose and left the room. Wraxall transferred his interest to his
host who was still gazing absently out over the gardens. Mrs. Brent’s
evident amazement at his suggestion had given the American something
to think about. Things were not going to be so simple as he had
imagined. He glanced across at Rollo Dangerfield’s profile, trying to
estimate the chances of overcoming his objections if he really proved
obdurate.
“Why, he might be an old Norseman come to life,” Wraxall said to
himself. “Put one of those winged helmets on his head, and with that
profile and that big white moustache he could sit to any painter for
the portrait of a Viking. He’s not likely to be anybody’s money when
it comes to bargaining. Stubborn. Obstinate. It’s going to be none so
easy after all.”
He studied his host covertly until he was interrupted by Mrs. Brent’s
return. She slipped into her chair and began to fan herself with an
air of relief.
“This is the kind of night when one appreciates the Dangerfield
methods,” she said, after a time. “They know how I hate climbing
stairs; and they gave me a room on the ground floor. It’s the only
one; all the rest are above. I blessed them just now as I passed the
staircase and remembered that I might have had to climb it. I’ve got
to the age when one economises on the unnecessary as far as possible;
and I count stair climbing as a luxury on that standard.”
A great moth swept suddenly in through the open window, veered and
swerved blindly over Rollo Dangerfield’s head, and then blundered out
once more into the darkness. Mrs. Brent followed its flight; and her
eyes caught the sky beyond the embrasure.
“Rollo!” she raised her voice to attract his attention. “Is there any
sign of that thunderstorm breaking? I wish it would come, and perhaps
the air would clear a little after it.”
Old Dangerfield leaned forward a little and scanned the visible
horizon.
“I’m afraid it’s no good. The clouds are lighter than they were an
hour ago; and I shouldn’t expect it to break to-night now.”
Mrs. Brent fanned herself resignedly.
“I’m not altogether sorry. That cure is almost as bad as the disease
for me, Mr. Wraxall. A thunderstorm shakes my nerves to pieces
always—I don’t know why. I’m not afraid of being struck, or anything
of that kind; but the noise of thunder seems to get down somewhere
into my subconsciousness and set me all on edge. After a real bad
storm I’m hardly normal. I feel I might do anything wild; try to fly
downstairs, steal my best friend’s spoons, or something equally
idiotic.”
The American looked at her with a faint twinkle in his eye.
“Now that’s curious, Mrs. Brent, that’s very curious indeed. For, you
see, thunderstorms take me quite the other way. I like them. I’d sit
up all night to watch a good thunderstorm. Give me a chair, and a good
wide window, with not too much iron near it, and I’d be content to
watch the flashes so long as they like to come.”
He turned to the nearest window as he spoke, and then seemed to study
it for a moment or two.
“That kind of window wouldn’t be much use as a stall for the
performance. It’s too deep-set. Are the walls of this house really a
couple of yards thick, the way they seem to be at the window-sill
there?”
“Several feet thick in this part of Friocksheim. This is the old part
of the house, you know—some of it dates from the time when the place
was a castle, and they had to make walls thick and windows small. And
of course that’s quite a recent thing. Here and there about the
building you’ll find remnants of a much older Friocksheim. There’s a
gateway you must get the Dangerfields to show you. It’s old enough to
satisfy you, I should think.”
“I’d like to see it. It would be very interesting to me. And there
must be some things worth visiting in the neighbourhood too. Perhaps
you could tell me what I ought to go and see.”
“There’s a battered sort of monument on the road to Frogsholme
village, about a mile and a half from here. I believe I remember
hearing that it had something to do with Runic, whatever that is. And
there are one or two other things you might care to look at.”
For a time she gave him the benefit of her rather scrappy knowledge of
the local antiquities, while he jotted down notes in his pocket-book.
At last, when he had exhausted her store, he looked at his watch and
made a gesture of apology.
“It’s late, Mrs. Brent. I really hadn’t meant to keep you so long. But
what you’ve been telling me is interesting, and I’ve got a thirst for
knowledge about that kind of thing. You’ve helped me considerably.
That information will be of great assistance to me.”
“Why not begin with the nearest? Mr. Dangerfield will be delighted to
show you the Talisman to-night, I’m sure, if you wish it. And be sure
to get him to tell you the legend of the pool. It may save you
trouble, you know. You’ll see that your idea about the Talisman is
quite hopeless.”
“That’s an idea. That’s a good idea, Mrs. Brent. I always like to
know, right away, what sort of proposition I’m up against. I’ve not
given up hope yet, you understand? I’m quite set on taking that
Talisman home with me somehow, if it can be managed. And I think it
can, one way or another.”
Conway Westenhanger’s voice came across the room. The bridge-table was
breaking up.
“I make it twenty-seven pounds twelve. You might check the figures,
Douglas. I’m more at home in the calculus than in simple arithmetic;
and it’s quite likely I’ve made a slip.”
“Right,” said Douglas. “It isn’t your honesty I’m in doubt
about, merely your capacity. The great brains are always a bit
one-sided—top-heavy, if you take my meaning. Let’s see. Eight and
six . . .”
He rapidly checked the addition.
“Correct! Well, you scrape through with a caution this time; but don’t
do it again.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton produced a roll of notes and counted out
twenty-seven pounds ten on the table between Eileen and herself.
“One moment. I have a florin somewhere.”
“Don’t trouble about it,” Eileen hastened to reassure her. “You
needn’t hunt for it. Let it stand.”
Mrs. Caistor Scorton continued her search and at last discovered the
missing coin.
“I don’t like letting things stand over. Settle for cash, that’s
always been my principle in bridge. I can’t be worried with
remembering odd shillings from day to day.”
Eileen Cressage picked up her winnings gratefully. She was not
disturbed by Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s manner. She was too overwhelmed by
relief. Here was an absolute windfall which would go some distance
towards solving the problem of her debts. Twenty-seven pounds! And she
had given only half her attention to the game. If she had put her mind
to it they might have won a good deal more. She had not even asked
what stakes they were playing for; she had been too worried to think
about that. A couple more nights like this and she would be able to
pay off all her creditors.
“Sorry I shan’t be able to give you your revenge to-morrow, Douglas,”
she heard Conway Westenhanger say, as he rose from the table. “I’ve
got to run up to town for a couple of days. My patent-agent seems to
have got on the track of an infringement of one of my affairs, and he
wants to go into the business. That means Chancery Lane, Patent Office
Library, and all the rest of it. Whew! It will be hot!”
Douglas’s good-natured face corrugated in a grin of commiseration; but
already he was moving across the room to where Cynthia Pennard was
sitting. Morchard watched his coming with a discontented eye.
Mrs. Brent, glad to be relieved from the American’s inquisition on
local monuments, went across to Rollo Dangerfield’s chair and gazed
out of the window.
“No, that storm won’t break to-night, I’m afraid. It’s moved further
on. But it’s got on my nerves already. I wish it would break and get
the thing over. This heat wave might pass, then.”
She drew back from the embrasure and bent over old Dangerfield.
“Rollo! I think Mr. Wraxall would like to have a look at the Talisman
to-night, if you aren’t too tired.”
Rollo Dangerfield heaved himself up out of his chair, his six-foot
height overtopping Mrs. Brent’s slight figure as he rose.
“Certainly, if Mr. Wraxall wishes it. We can go along now, if he cares
about it.”
Eileen Cressage had caught the rapid interchange of talk.
“Oh! Are you going to tell him the Legend? May I come? I’d like to
hear it.”
“What legend? About the Talisman? I haven’t heard it either,” said
Westenhanger. “Do you mind my coming with you along with the rest?”
Rollo Dangerfield’s smile had a touch of wistfulness, in which it
seemed curiously alien from the general cast of his features.
“Anyone who is interested will be welcome,” he said, with a touch of
an old-fashioned courtesy which seemed to be so much in character in
his case. And, crossing the room, he opened the door for the party to
pass out under his guidance.