Cheynel Gardens is one of those very select thoroughfares that no
cab-driver has ever found without the assistance of a local guide.
Taximen have “heard of it,” dimly remember having dropped a fare there
at some time or other; but where it is, only the police and the postmen
know. Often people who live in Cheynel Gardens have only the haziest
idea whether they are in Mayfair or Marylebone.
Gordon occupied a corner house that had a garden, probably the garden
after which the thoroughfare was named, for there was no other. If a
garden can be so called that consists of a twelve by ten paved courtyard
occupied by two large bushes in tubs.
It was the last house on the left as you turned in from Brook Street, a
handsome, sober pile of red brick and yellow sandstone, with a big study
to which stained-glass windows gave the appearance of a well-furnished
chapel.
His study was indeed a holy place, for none entered without invitation.
It had two doors, one of thick oak, one of deadening baize, so that no
sound might disturb Gordon’s close and careful scrutiny of _The
Economist_, which, with the _Insurance Review_, formed his light
reading. By day he perused _The Times_, by night he read heavy studies
in sociology, or, if he were tired, _Zur Genealogie der
Moral_--Nietzsche being one of his favourite authors.
He descended from the cab that brought him home, gave the driver a ten
per cent. tip worked out to the nearest penny, and erring on his own
side, and walked slowly up the steps. The door opened instantly. It was
part of the daily ritual. Trenter took his hat, his walking-stick and
his gloves, and Gordon said:
“No letters?”
If Trenter had said no, the ritual would have been interrupted.
“Yes, sir, and----”
No need to say more. Gordon was staring at four immense trunks that
almost completely covered the floor space of the hall. Three of them
were conspicuously labelled “Not wanted on voyage.” The fourth had a big
red “Cabin” pasted on its side.
“What--on--earth--are--these?” asked Gordon breathlessly.
“The young lady arrived this afternoon, sir.” Trenter was all a-twitter.
“The young lady arrived--which young lady, may I ask?”
“Miss Ford, sir.”
Gordon’s forehead wrinkled. He had heard the name in some connection.
Ford ... Ford? It was familiar.
“No, sir--Miss Diana Ford from Australia.”
The cousin! Mr. Selsbury inclined his head graciously. The instincts of
hospitality were not entirely atrophied, and the Selsburys were a race
of courtly men.
“Will you tell Miss Ford I am returned and will be glad to see her in
The Study?”
Trenter’s face twitched.
“She’s in The Study, sir,” he almost pleaded. “I told her that nobody
ever went when you were away and that I kept it locked.”
Gordon was taken aback. It is disconcerting to a host to find his
hospitality anticipated and taken as a right.
“Indeed!” he said, and smiled. “Miss Ford couldn’t be expected to
understand our ways, Trenter. I will see her.”
He knocked at the door and a voice bade him enter.
“I am delighted to meet you, Cousin Diana,” he said, and looked round to
discover how she might be met.
Then from his favourite chair a white hand appeared.
“Come in, Gordon.... I’m sure it’s Gordon.”
She jumped up and round to face him. She had taken off her shoes for
greater comfort, and in her silk-stockinged feet looked very small. He
thought she was pretty, just as he would have thought that a kitten was
pretty. How very amusing.
“Well, young lady,” he said with paternal good-humour, “so here you are!
I never expected to see you. Have you had a good voyage----?”
“Are you married?” She asked the question rather tensely.
“No, I’m not married. I’m a confirmed old bachelor.”
“Ah!” She sighed happily. “I was awfully scared of that
complication--you haven’t kissed me.”
Gordon was not aware that he had not kissed her, any more than he was
aware that he had not hit her on the head with the book he was carrying.
The Selsburys were a courtly race. He stooped and struck her gently with
his lips.
“Sit down, my dear--you will have tea, of course? I am truly sorry that
I kept you waiting. Where are you staying?”
She flashed one look at him.
“Here,” she said.
For a second he could not comprehend.
“I mean, what hotel--where are you--er--sleeping to-night?”
“Here,” said Diana.
In moments of crisis Gordon never lost his head. He once stood on the
deck of a sinking cross-Channel steamer discussing the atomic theory
with a Cambridge don. He had twice heard burglars in the house, and had
often been called upon without notice at public meetings to propose the
health of the chairman.
“You mean that you are coming to stay with me--for a little while? I
would be delighted, but unfortunately this is a bachelor establishment.
There are no women in the house except the domestic staff.”
He spoke kindly; his argument was logical, his attitude correct in every
detail.
“You want a woman about the house; it was very nearly time I came,” she
said, as unflurried as Gordon himself.
He stifled his sigh. The position was embarrassing--other men would have
been thrown off their feet and either lost their tempers or behaved in
some way hurtfully.
“I shall be delighted to have you here--for a few days,” he smiled. “So
run along and telephone to your chaperone and ask her to bring her
trunks here----”
Diana pulled on her shoes, unconcerned.
“I’ve been admiring your oars,” she said. “You rowed six, didn’t
you--and won! How splendid!”
“Yes, yes--er--yes.” Gordon was not proud of his bygone athleticism. “Or
shall I telephone?”
“To whom?” innocently.
“To your chaperone ... the lady with whom you are travelling....”
“Don’t be silly.”
He stiffened; went limp again: turned a shade paler.
“I travelled alone--as much alone as one can be with a hundred and fifty
saloon passengers who played deck games and enjoyed them. An
intellectual woman can have no possible community of interest with
people who enthuse over bucket quoits.”
A chair was within reach of his hand and he sat down. Men like Gordon
Selsbury seldom lose grip of a situation, however awkward it may be. The
sheer weight of their wisdom and their personality has a tendency to
roll flat obstacles of the most tremendous nature.
“Now I’m going to be a father and an uncle and a wise old cousin to
you,” he said, good nature rigidly and obstinately imprinted in his
smile. “You’re a young girl and somebody has got to tell you that you
cannot stay alone--er--as the guest of a bachelor.”
She stood, her hands behind her, not the ghost of amusement in her face,
unmoved and immovable.
“And I’ve got to tell you, Gordon Selsbury, that I not only can, but I’m
going to stay here! I am not responsible for your being a bachelor. You
ought to be married. It is unnatural to live in a big house like this by
yourself. I have come to stay and, possibly, keep house for you. You
must let me have a list of the dishes you like for breakfast. I like
grape fruit and hominy with a small crisp slice of bacon. At the same
time, Gordon, I am not averse to devilled kidneys _à la chef_--do you
like waffles? I’m crazy about them! We had a Japanese cook who made them
to perfection. Another wonderful breakfast dish is tomatoes chiffre....”
“Diana,” he said gravely, “you are distressing me. Of course you can’t
_possibly_ stay here! My dear child, I have to consider your good name;
in after years you will realise what a dreadful thing you have proposed.
Now, my dear, I’m going to ’phone Laridge’s Hotel and ask them to
reserve a nice room for you.”
He half rose; her hands dropped to his shoulders and she pushed him
down. It was surprising how strong she was.
“Let us have no scandal,” said Diana firmly. “There is only one way to
get me out of this house and that is for you to send for a policeman.
And a single policeman could do very little. I have an automatic in my
dressing-bag.... I shall not hesitate to shoot.”
He gazed at her in horror. She returned the gaze without reproach,
without doubt. She had the Will to Stay. He recognised a variation of
the Nietzsche principle.
“There is only one thing left for me to do, Diana,” he said. His gravity
was so profound that he intoned his speech; it became a Gregorian chant
in the minor key. “I must go out from my house and leave you here. I
myself must take a room in a near hotel.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said. “If you do I shall put
advertisements in all the papers:
“Missing from his home since Friday, Mr. Gordon Selsbury. Tall,
fair, fresh complexion, rather good-looking.”
Gordon licked dry lips. Life was drab and sordid, but nothing in life
was quite so vulgar and hateful as the popular press. The only time in
his life that he had ever experienced a nightmare, the vision had taken
a particularly hideous shape. He dreamt that he had been locked up for
smothering a chorus girl, and was ordered by the judge to write his
impressions of the murder in a Sunday newspaper.
“You will perhaps think better of this in a few days,” he said huskily.
“I feel sure that, when you realise what you are doing----”
She sat down at his beautifully tidy writing-table, took up a pen, and
snatched from his stationery rack a sheet of notepaper.
“Now tell me what you like for breakfast,” she said. “Smoked haddock ...
salmon steak ... fish is good for the brain. Do you mind if I call you
Gord?”