“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.”
“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. . . .