"Who is going to punish us?" barked the Gargoyle.
"The police," I barked back. And almost I could have laughed at the difference in size and voice. I was so like a slim young Borzoi yapping at the nose of a bloodhound.
"Rot!" snorted the big fellow. "Damn rot!" (and I thought I heard a faint chuckle from the chair). "If the police were on to us, you wouldn't be here. This is a try-on."
"You'll soon see whether it's a try-on or not," I defied him. "As a matter of fact, out of pity for your two poor old dupes, we haven't told the police yet of what we've found out. I say 'we,' for I'm far from being alone or unprotected. I came to speak with Mrs. Barlow because she and her husband once served my family, and were honest till you tempted them. But if I'm kept here more than the fifteen minutes I specified, there is a man who——"
"There isn't," snapped the Gargoyle. "There was, but there isn't now. My brother Bob and me was out in our boat. I don't mind tellin' you, as you know so much, that we've spent quite a lot of time beatin' and prowlin' around these shores since the big storm." (The thought flashed through my brain: "Then they haven't read about theNaiad! Or else they didn't guess that the coffin was the same. That'sonegood thing! They can never blackmail Roger, whatever happens to me!") But I didn't speak. I let him pause for a second, and go on without interruption. "Comin' home we seen that car o' yourn outside our gate. Thought it was queer! Bob says to me, 'Hank, go on up to the house, and make me a sign from behind the big tree if there's anythin' wrong.' The feller in the car hadn't seen or heard us. We took care o' that! I slid off my shoes before I got to the door here, and listened a bit to your words o' wisdom. Then I slipped out as fur as the tree, and I made the sign. Bob didn't tell me what he meant to do. But I'm some on mind readin'. I guess that gentleman friend of yourn has gone to sleep in his automobile, as any one might in this quiet neighbourhood, where folks don't pass once in four or five hours. Bob can drive most makes of cars. Shouldn't wonder if he can manage this one. If you hear the engine tune up, you'll know it's him takin' the chauffeur down to the sea."
My bones felt like icicles; but I thought of Grandmother, and wouldn't give in. Also, with far less reason, I thought of Sir James. Strange, unaccountable creature that I was, my soul cried aloud for the championship of his strength! "The sea hasn't brought you much luck yet," I brazened. "I shouldn't advise you to try it again."
"I ain't askin' your advice," retorted the man who had indirectly introduced himself as "Hank Barlow." "All I ask is, where's the stuff?"
"What stuff?" I played for time, though I knew very well the "stuff" he meant.
"The goods from the Abbey. I won't say you wasn't smart to get on to the cache, and nab the box out o' the cave. Only you wasn't quite smart enough—savez? The fellers laugh best who laugh last. And we're those fellers!"
"You spring to conclusions," I said. But my voice sounded small in my own ears—small and thin as the voice of a child. (Oh, to know if this brute spoke truth about his brother and Roger Fane and the car, or if he were fighting me with my own weapon—Bluff!)
Henry Barlow laughed aloud—though he mightn't laugh last! "Do you call yourself a 'conclusion'? I'll give you just two minutes, my handsome lady, to make up your mind. If you don't tell me then where to lay me 'and on you knowwhat, I'll spring atyou."
By the wolf-glare in his eyes and the boldness of his tone I feared that his game wasn't wholly bluff. By irony of Fate, he had turned the tables on me. Thinking the power was all on my side and Roger's, I'd walked into a trap. And if, indeed, Roger had been struck down from behind, I did not see any way of escape for him or me. I had let out that I knew too much.
Even if I turned coward, and told Hank Barlow that the late contents of his uncle's coffin were on board theNaiad, he could not safely allow Roger or me to go free. But Iwouldn'tturn coward! To save the secret of the Abbey treasures meant saving the secret of what that coffin now held. My sick fear turned to hot rage. "Spring!" I cried. "Kill me if you choose.Mycoffin will keep a secret, which yours couldn't do!"
He glared, nonplussed by my violence.
"Devil take you, you cat!" he grunted.
"And you, you hound!" I cried.
His eyes flamed. I think fury would have conquered prudence, and he would have sprung then, to choke my life out, perhaps. But he hadn't locked the door. At that instant it swung open, and a whirlwind burst in. The whirlwind was a man. And the man was James Courtenaye.
I did not tell Sir Jim that my spirit had forgotten itself so utterly as to call him. It was quite unnecessary, as matters turned out, to "give myself away" to this extent. For, you see, it was not my call that brought him. It was Roger's.
As Shelagh Leigh was my best friend, so was, and is, Jim Courtenaye Roger Fane's. All the first part of Roger's life tragedy was known to my "forty-fourth cousin four times removed." For years Roger had given him all his confidence. The ex-cowboy had even advised him in his love affair with Shelagh, to "go on full steam ahead, and never mind breakers"—(alias Pollens). This being the case, it had seemed to Roger unfair not to trust his chum to the uttermost end. He had not intended to mention me as his accomplice; but evidently cowboys' wits are as quick as their lassoes. Jim guessed at my part in the business, thinking, maybe—that only the sly sex could hit upon such a Way Out. Anyhow, he was far from shocked; in fact, deigned to approve of me for the first time, and hearing how I had planned to restore the stolen heirlooms, roared with laughter.
Roger, conscience-stricken because my secret had leaked out with his, wished to atone by telling me that his friend had scented the whole truth. Jim Courtenaye, however, urged him against this course. He reckoned the Barlow twins more formidable than Roger and I had thought them, and insisted that he should be a partner in our game of Bluff. Only, he wished to be a silent partner till the right time came to speak. Or that was the way he put it. His real reason, as he boldly confessed afterward, was that, if I knew he was "in it," I'd be sure to make a "silly fuss"!
It was arranged between him and Roger that he should motor from Courtenaye Coombe to Dudworth Cove, put up his car at the small hotel, and inconspicuously approach the Barlows' farm on foot. In some quiet spot which he would guarantee to find, he was to "lurk" and await developments. If help were wanted, he would be there to give it. If not, he would peacefully remove himself, and I need never know that he had been near the place.
All the details of this minor plot were well mapped out, and the only one that failed (not being mapped out) was a tyre of his Rolls-Royce which stepped on a nail as long as Jael's. Wishing to do the trick alone, Jim had taken no chauffeur; and he wasn't as expert at pumping up tyres as at breaking in bronchos. He was twenty minutes past scheduled time, in consequence, and arrived at the spot appointed just as Bob Barlow had bashed Roger Fane smartly on the head from behind.
Naturally this incident kept his attention engaged for some moments. He had to overpower the Barlow twin, who was on the alert, and not to be taken by surprise. The Australian was still in good fighting trim, and gave Sir James some trouble before he was reduced to powerlessness. Then a glance had to be given Roger, to make sure he had not got a knock-out blow. Altogether, Hank Barlow had five minutes' grace indoors with me, before—the whirlwind. If it had beensixminutes——But then, it wasn't! So why waste thrills upon a horror which had not time to materialize? And oh, how Ididenjoy seeing those twins trussed up like a pair of monstrous fowls on the kitchen floor! It had been clever of Sir Jim to place a coil of rope in Roger's car in case of emergencies. But when I said this, to show my appreciation, he replied drily that a cattleman's first thought is rope! "That's what you are accustomed to call me, I believe," he added. "A cattleman."
"I shall never call you it again," I quite meekly assured him.
"You won't? What will you call me, then?"
"Cousin—if you like," I said.
"That'll do—for the present," he granted.
"Or 'friend,' if it pleases you better?" I suggested.
"Both are pretty good to go on with."
So between us there was a truce—and no more Pembertons or even Smiths: which is why "Smith" never revealed whathethought about what Sir Jim thought of me. And I would not try to guess—would you? But it was only to screen Roger, and not to content me, that Sir James Courtenaye allowed my original plan to be carried out: the heirlooms to be mysteriously returned by night to the Abbey, and the Barlow tribe to vanish into space, otherwise Australia. He admitted this bluntly. And I retorted that, if he hadn't saved my life, I should say that such friendship wasn't worth much. But there it was! Hehadsaved it. And things being as they were, Shelagh told Roger that I couldn't reasonably object if Jim were asked to be best man at the wedding, though I was to be "best woman."
She was right. I couldn't. And it was a lovely wedding. I lightened my mourning for it to white and lavender—just for the day. Mrs. Carstairs said I owed this to the bride and bridegroom—also to myself, as Brightener, to say nothing of Sir Jim.
"Do you want to be a Life Preserver as well as a Brightener, Elizabeth, my child?" asked Mrs. Carstairs.
"Depends on whose life," I replied, making a lovely blue smoke ring before I spoke and another when I'd finished.
I hoped to shock Mrs. Carstairs, in order to see what the nicest old lady on earth would look like when scandalized. But I was disappointed. She was not scandalized. She asked for a cigarette, and took it; my last.
"The latest style in my country is to make your smoke ring loop the loop, and do it through the nose," she informed me, calmly. "I can't do it myself—yet. But Terry Burns can."
"Who's Terry Burns?" I asked.
"The man whose life ought to be preserved."
"It certainly ought," said I, "if he can make smoke rings loop the loop through his nose. Oh, you know what Imean!"
"He hardly takes enough interest in things to do even that, nowadays," sighed Mrs. Carstairs.
"Good heavens! what's the matter with the man—senile decay?" I flung at her. "Terry isn't at all a decayed name."
"And Terry isn't a decayed man. He's about twenty-six, if you choose to call that senile. He's almosttoogood-looking. He's not physically ill. And he's got plenty of money. All the same, he's likely to die quite soon, I should say."
"Can't anything be done?" I inquired, really moved.
"I don't know. It's a legacy from shell shock. You know whatthatis. He's come to stay with us at Haslemere, poor boy, because my husband was once in love with his mother—at the same time I was worshipping his father. Terry was with us before—here in London in 1915—on leave soon after he volunteered. Afterward, when America came in, he transferred. But even in 1915 he wasn't exactlyradiatinghappiness (disappointment in love or something), but he was just boyishly cynical then, nothing worse; andthemost splendid specimen of a young man!—his father over again; Henry says, hismother! Either way, I was looking forward to nursing him at Haslemere and seeing him improve every day. But, mydear, I can donothing! He has got so on my nerves that Ihadto make an excuse to run up to town or I should simply have—slumped. The sight of me slumping would have been terribly bad for the poor child's health. It might have finished him."
"So you want to exchange my nerves for yours," I said. "You want me to nurse your protégé tillIslump. Is that it?"
"It wouldn't come to that with you," argued the ancient darling. "You could bring back his interest in life; I know you could. You'd think of something. Remember what you did for Roger Fane!"
As a matter of fact, I had done a good deal more for Roger Fane than dear old Caroline knew or would ever know. But if Roger owed anything to me, I owed him, and all he had paid me in gratitude and banknotes, to Mrs. Carstairs.
"I shall never forget Roger Fane, and I hope he won't me," I said. "Shelagh won't let him! Buthehadn't lost interest in life. He just wanted life to give him Shelagh Leigh. She happened to be my best pal; and her people were snobs, so I could help him. But this Terry Burns of yours—what can I do for him?"
"Take him on and see," pleaded the old lady.
"Do you wish him to fall in love with me?" I suggested.
"He wouldn't if I did. He told me the other day that he'd loved only one woman in his life, and he should never care for another. Besides, I mustn't conceal from you, this would be an unsalaried job."
"Oh, indeed!" said I, slightly piqued. "I don't want his old love! Or his old money, either! But—well—I might just go and have a look at him, if you'd care to take me to Haslemere with you. No harm in seeing what can be done—if anything. I suppose, as you and Mr. Carstairs between you were in love with all his ancestors, and he resembles them, he must be worth saving—apart from the loops. Is he English or American orwhat?"
"American on one side and What on the other," replied the old lady. "That is, his father, whom I was in love with, was American. The mother, whom Henry adored, was French. All that's quite a romance. But it's ancient history. And it's the present we're interested in. Of course I'd care to take you to Haslemere. But I have a better plan. I've persuaded Terry to consult the nerve specialist, Sir Humphrey Hale. He's comparatively easy to persuade, because he'd rather yield a point than bother to argue. That's how I got my excuse to run up to town: to explain the case to Sir Humphrey, and have my flat made ready for Terence to live in, while he's being treated."
"Oh, that's it," I said, and thought for a minute.
My flat is in the same house as the Carstairs', a charming old house in which I couldn't afford to live if Dame Caroline (title given by me, not His Gracious Majesty) hadn't taught me the gentle, well-paid Art of Brightening.
You might imagine that a Brightener was some sort of patent polisher for stoves, metal, or even boots. But you would be mistaken.Iam the one and only Brightener!
But this isn't what I was thinking about when I said, "Oh, that's it?" I was attempting to track that benevolent female fox, Caroline Carstairs, to the fastness of her mental lair. When I flattered myself that I'd succeeded, I spoke again.
"I see what you'd be at, Madame Machiavelli," I warned her. "You and your husband are so fed up with the son of your ancient loves, that he's spoiling your holiday in your country house. You've been wondering how on earth to shed him, anyhow for a breathing space, without being unkind. So you thought, if you could lure him to London, and lend him your flat——"
"Dearest, you are an ungrateful young Beastess! Besides, you're only half right. It's true, poor Henry and I are worn out from sympathy. Our hearts are squeezed sponges, and have completely collapsed. Not that Terry complains. He doesn't. Only he is so horribly bored with life and himself and us that it's killing all three. Ihadto think of something to save him. So I thought of you."
"But you thought of Sir Humphrey Hale. Surely, if there's any cure for Mr.——"
"Captain——"
"Burns. Sir Humphrey can——"
"He can't. But I had tousehim with Terry. I couldn't say: 'Go live in our flat and meet the Princess di Miramare. He would believe the obvious thing, and be put off. You are to be thrown in as an extra: a charming neighbour who, as a favour to me, will see that he's all right. When you've got him interested—not in yourself, but in life—I shall explain—or confess, whichever you choose to call it. He will then realize that the fee for his cure ought to be yours, not Sir Humphrey's, though naturally you couldn't accept one. Sir Humphrey has already told me that, judging from the symptoms I've described, it seems a case beyond doctor's skill. You know, Sir H—— has made his pile, and doesn't have to tout for patients. But he's a good friend of Henry's and mine."
"You have very strong faith inme!" I laughed.
"Not too strong," said she.
The Carstairs' servants had gone with them to the house near Haslemere; but if Dame Caroline wanted a first-rate cook at a moment's notice, she would wangle one even if there were only two in existence, and both engaged. The shell-shock man had his own valet—an ex-soldier—so with the pair of them, and a char-creature of some sort, he would do very well for a few weeks. Nevertheless, I hardly thought that, in the end, he would be braced up to the effort of coming, and I should not have been surprised to receive a wire:
Rather than move, Terry has cut his throat in the Japanese garden.
Rather than move, Terry has cut his throat in the Japanese garden.
Which shows that despite all past experiences, I little knew my Caroline!
Captain Burns—late of the American Flying Corps—did come; and what is more, he called at my flat before he had been fifteen minutes in his own. This he did because Mrs. Carstairs had begged him to bring a small parcel which he must deliver by hand to me personally. She had telegraphed, asking me to stop at home—quite a favour in this wonderful summer, even though it was July, the season proper had passed; but I couldn't refuse, as I'd tacitly promised to brighten the man. So there I sat, in my favourite frock, when he was ushered into the drawing room.
Dame Caroline had told me that "Terry" was good-looking, but her description had left me cold, and somehow or other I was completely unprepared for the real Terry Burns.
Yes,realis the word for him! He was so real that it seemed odd I had gone on all my life without having known there was this Terence Burns. Not that I fell in love with him. Just at the moment I was much occupied in trying to keep alight an old fire of resentment against a man who had saved my life; a "forty-fourth cousin four times removed" (as he called himself), Sir James Courtenaye. But when I say "real," I mean he was one of those few people who would seem important to you if you passed him in a crowd. You would tell yourself regretfully that there was a friend you'd missed making: and you would have had to resist a strong impulse to rush back and speak to him at any price.
If, at the first instant of meeting, I felt this strong personal magnetism, or charm, or whatever it was, though the man was down physically at lowest ebb, what would the sensation have been with him at his best?
He was tall and very thin, with a loose-boned look, as if he ought to be lithe and muscular, but he came into the room listlessly, his shoulders drooping, as though it were an almost unbearable bore to put one foot before another. His pallor was of the pathetic kind that gives an odd transparence to deeply tanned skin, almost like a light shining through. His hair was a bronzy brown, so immaculately brushed back from his square forehead as to remind you of a helmet, except that it rippled all over. And he had the most appealing eyes I ever saw.
They were not dark, tragic ones like Roger Fane's. I thought that when he was well and happy, they must have been full of light and joy. They were slate-gray with thick black lashes, true Celtic eyes: but they were dull and tired now, not sad, only devoid of interest in anything.
It wasn't flattering that they should be devoid of interest in me. I am used to having men's eyes light up with a gleam of surprise when they see me for the first time. This man's eyes didn't. I seemed to read in them: "Yes, I suppose you're very pretty. But that's nothing to me, and I hope you don't want me to flirt with you, because I haven't the energy or even the wish."
I'm sure that, vaguely, this was about what was in his mind, and that he intended getting away from me as soon as would be decently polite after finishing his errand. Still, I wasn't in the least annoyed. I was sorry for him—not because he didn't want to be bothered with me, but because he didn't want to be bothered with anything. Millionaire or pauper, I didn't care. I was determined to brighten him, in spite of himself. He was too dear and delightful a fellow not to be happy with somebody, some day. I couldn't sit still and let him sink down and down into the depths. But I should have to go carefully, or do him more harm than good. I could see that. If I attempted to be amusing he would crawl away, a battered wreck.
What I did was to show no particular interest in him. I took the tiny parcel Mrs. Carstairs had ordered him to bring, and asked casually if he'd care to stop in my flat till his man had finished unpacking.
"I don't know howyoufeel," I said, "but I always hate the first hour in a new place, with a servant fussing about, opening and shutting drawers and wardrobes. I loathe things that squeak."
"So do I," he answered, dreamily. "Any sort of noise."
"I shall be having tea in a few minutes," I mentioned. "If you don't mind looking at magazines or something while I open Mrs. Carstairs' parcel, and write to her, stay if you care to. I should be pleased. But don't feel you'll be rude to say 'no.' Do as you like."
He stayed, probably because he was in a nice easy chair, and it was simpler to sit still than get up, so long as he needn't make conversation. I left him there, while I went to the far end of the room, where my desk was. The wonderful packet, which must be given into my hand by his, contained three beautiful new potatoes, the size of marbles, out of the Carstairs' kitchen garden! I bit back a giggle, hid the rare jewels in a drawer, and scribbled any nonsense I could think of to Dame Caroline, till I heard tea coming. Then I went back to my guest. I gave him tea, and other things. There were late strawberries, and some Devonshire cream, which had arrived by post that morning, anonymously. Sir James Courtenaye, that red-haired cowboy to whom I'd let the ancestral Abbey, was in Devonshire. But there was no reason why he should send me cream, or anything else. Still, there it was. Captain Burns, it appeared, had never happened to taste the Devonshire variety. He liked it. And when he had disposed of a certain amount (during which time we hardly spoke), I offered him my cigarette case.
For a few moments we both smoked in silence. Then I said, "I'm disappointed in you."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you haven't looped any loops through your nose."
He actually laughed! He looked delightful when he laughed.
"I was trying something of the sort one day, and failing," I explained. "Mrs. Carstairs said she had a friend who could do it, and his name was Terence Burns."
"I've almost forgotten that old stunt," he smiled indulgently. "Think of Mrs. Carstairs remembering it! Why, I haven't had time to remember it myself, much less try it out, since I was young."
"Thatisa long time ago!" I ventured, smoking hard.
"You see," he explained quite gravely, smoking harder, "I went into the war in 1915. It wasn'tourwar then, for I'm an American, you know. But I had a sort of feeling it ought to be everybody's war. And besides, I'd fallen out of love with life about that time. War doesn't leave a man feeling very young, whether or not he's gone through what I have."
"I know," said I. "Even we women don't feel as young as we hope we look. I'm twenty-one and a half, and feel forty."
"I'm twenty-seven, and feel ninety-nine," he capped me.
"Shell shock is—thedevil!" I sympathized. "But men get over it. I know lots who have." I took another cigarette and pushed the case toward him.
"Perhaps they wanted to get over it. I don't want to, particularly, because life has rather lost interest for me, since I was about twenty-two; I'm afraid that was one reason I volunteered. Not very brave! I don't care now whether I live or die. I didn't care then."
"At twenty-two! Why, you weren't grown up!"
"Yousay that, at twenty-one?"
"It's different with a girl. I've had such a lot of things to make me feel grown up."
"So have I, God knows." (By this time he was smoking like a chimney.) "Didyoulose the one thing you'd wanted in the world? But no—I mustn't ask that. I don't ask it."
"You may," I vouchsafed, charmed that—as one says of a baby—he was "beginning to take notice." "No, frankly, I didn't lose the one thing in the world I wanted most, because I've never quite known yet what I did or do want most. But not knowing leaves you at loose ends, if you're alone in the world as I am." Then, having said this, just to indicate that my circumstances conduced to tacit sympathy with his, I hopped like a sparrow to another branch of the same subject. "It's bad not to get what we want. But it's dull not to want anything."
"Is it?" Burns asked almost fiercely. "I haven't got to that yet. I wish I had. When I want a thing, it's in my nature to want it for good and all. I want the thing I wanted before the war as much now as ever. That's the principal trouble with me, I think. The hopelessness of everything. The uselessness of the things youcanget."
"Can't you manage to want something you might possibly get?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "That's much the same advice that the doctors have given—the advice this Sir Humphrey Hale of the Carstairs will give to-morrow. I'm sure. 'Try to take an interest in things as they are.' Good heavens! that's just what Ican'tdo."
"Idon't give you that advice," I said. "It's worse than useless totryand take an interest. It'sstodgy. What I mean is,ifan interest, alias a chance of adventure, should breeze along, don't shut the door on it. Let it in, ask it to sit down, and see how you like it. But then—maybe you wouldn't recognize it as an adventure if you saw it at the window!"
"Oh, I think I should do that!" he defended himself. "I'm man enough yet to know an adventure when I meet it. That's why I came into your war. But the war's finished, and so am I. Really, I don't see why any one bothers about me. I wouldn't about myself, if they'd let me alone!"
"There I'm with you," said I. "I like to be let alone, to go my own way. Still, people unfortunately feel bound to do their best. Mrs. Carstairs has done hers. If Sir Humphrey gives you up, she'll thenceforward consider herself free from responsibility—and you free to 'dree your own weird'—whatever that means!—to the bitter end. As for me, I've no responsibility at all. I don't advise you! In your place, I'd do as you're doing. Only, I've enough fellow feeling to let you know, in a spirit of comradeship, if I hear the call of an adventure.... There, youdidthe 'stunt' all right that time! Alovelyloop the loop! I wouldn't have believed it! Now watch, please, while I try!"
He did watch, and I fancy that, in spite of himself, he took an interest! He laughed out, quite a spontaneous "Ha, ha!" when I began with a loop and ended with a sneeze.
It seems too absurd that a siren should lure her victim with a sneeze instead of a song. But it was that sneeze which did the trick. Or else, my mumness now and then, and not seeming to care a Tinker's Anything whether he thought I was pretty or a fright. He warmed toward me visibly during the loop lesson, and I was as proud as if a wild bird had settled down to eat out of my hand.
That was the beginning: and a commonplace one, you'll say! It didn't seem commonplace to me: I was too much interested. But even I did not dream of the weird developments ahead!
It was on the fourth day that I got the idea—I mean, the fourth day of Terry Burns' stay in town.
He had dropped in to see me on each of these days, for one reason or other: to tell me what Sir Humphrey said; to sneer at the treatment; to beg a cigarette when his store had given out; or something else equally important; I (true to my bargain with Caroline) having given up all engagements in order to brighten Captain Burns.
I was reading theTimeswhen a thought popped into my head. I shut my eyes, and studied its features. They fascinated me.
It was morning: and presently my Patient unawares strolled in for the eleven-o'clock glass of egg-nogg prescribed by Sir Humphrey and offered by me.
He drank it. When he had pronounced it good, I asked him casually how he was. No change. At least, none that he noticed. Except that he always felt better, more human, in my society. That was because I appeared to be a bit fed up with life, too, and didn't try to cheer him.
"On the contrary," I said, "I was just wondering whether I might ask you to cheerme. I've thought of something that might amuse me a little. Yes, I'm sure it would! Only I'm not equal to working out the details alone. If I weren't afraid it would bore you...."
"Of course it wouldn't, if it could amuse you!" His eyes lit. "Tell me what it is you want to do?"
"I'm almost ashamed. It's so childish. But it would befun."
"If I could care to do anything at all, it would be something childish. Besides, I believe you and I are rather alike in several ways. We have the same opinions about life. We're both down on our luck."
I gave myself a mental pat on the head. I ought to succeed on the stage, if it ever came to that!
"Well," I hesitated. "I got the idea from an article in theTimes. There's something on the subject every day in every paper I see, but it never occurred to me till now to get any fun out of it: the Housing Problem, you know. Not the one for the working classes—I wouldn't be so mean as to 'spoof' them—nor theNouveaux Pauvres, of whom I'm one! It's for theNouveaux Riches. They're fair game."
"What do you want to do to them?" asked Terry Burns.
"Play a practical joke; then dig myself in and watch the result. Perhaps there'd be none. In that case, the joke would be on me."
"And on me, if we both went in for the experiment. We'd bear the blow together."
"It wouldn't kill us! Listen—I'll explain. It's simply idiotic. But it's something todo: something to make one wake up in the morning with a little interest to look forward to. The papers all say thateverybody is searching for a desirable house to be sold, or let furnished; and that therearen'tany houses! On the other hand, if you glance at the advertisement sheets ofanynewspaper, you ask yourself if every second house in England isn't asking to be disposed of! Now, is it only a 'silly-season' cry, this grievance about no houses, or is it true? What larks to concoct an absolutely adorable 'ad.', describing a place with every perfection, and see what applications one would get! Would there be thousands or just a mere dribble, or none at all? Don't you think it would be fun to find out—and reading the letters if there were any? People would be sure to say a lot about themselves. Human nature'slikethat. Or, anyhow, we could force their hands by putting into the 'ad.' that we would let our wonderful house only to the right sort of tenants. 'No others need apply'."
"But that would limit the number of answers—and our fun," said Terry. On his face glimmered a grin. After all, the "kid" in him had been scotched, not killed.
"Oh, no," I argued. "They'd be serenely confident that they and they alone were the right ones. Then, when they didn't hear from the advertiser by return, they'd suppose that someone more lucky had got ahead of them. Yes, we're on the right track! We must want to let our place furnished. If we wished to sell, we'd have no motive in trying to pick and choose our buyer. Any creature with money would do. So our letters would be tame as Teddy-bears. Whatwewant is human documents!"
"Let's begin to think out our 'ad.'!" exclaimed the patient, sitting up straighter in his chair. Already two or three haggard years seemed to have fallen from his face. I might have been skilfully knocking them off with a hammer!
Like a competent general, I had all my materials at hand: Captain Burns' favourite brand of cigarettes, matches warranted to light without damns, a notebook, several sharp, soft-leaded pencils, and some illustrated advertisements cut fromCountry Lifeto give us hints.
"What sort of househavewe?" Terry wanted to know. "Is it town or country; genuine Tudor, Jacobean, Queen Anne, or Georgian——"
"Oh,country! It gives us more scope," I cried. "And I think Tudor's the most attractive. But I may be prejudiced. Courtenaye Abbey—our place in Devonshire—is mostly Tudor. I'm too poor to live there. Through Mr. Carstairs it's let to a forty-fourth cousin of mine who did cowboying in all its branches in America, coined piles of oof in something or other, and came over here to live when he'd collected enough to revive a little old family title. But I adore the Abbey."
"Our house shall be Tudor," Terry assented. "It had better be historic, hadn't it?"
"Why not? It's just as easy for us. Let's have theoldestbits earlier than Tudor—what?"
"By Jove! Yes! King John. Might look fishy to go behindhim!"
So, block after block, by suggestion, we two architects of the aerial school built up the noble mansion we had to dispose of. With loving and artistic touch, we added feature after feature of interest, as inspirations came. We were like benevolent fairy god-parents at a baby's christening, endowing a beloved ward with all possible perfections.
Terry noted down our ideas at their birth, lest we should forget under pressure of others to follow; and at last, after several discarded efforts, we achieved an advertisement which combined every attribute of an earthly paradise.
This is the way it ran:
"To let furnished, for remainder of summer (possibly longer), historic moated Grange, one of the most interesting old country places in England, mentioned in Domesday Book, for absurdly small rent to desirable tenant; offered practically free. The house, with foundations, chapel, and other features dating from the time of King John, has remained unchanged save for such modern improvements as baths (h. & c.), electric lighting, and central heating, since Elizabethan days. It possesses a magnificent stone-paved hall, with vaulted chestnut roof (15th century), on carved stone corbels; an oak-panelled banqueting hall with stone, fan-vaulted roof and mistrels' gallery. Each of the several large reception rooms is rich in old oak, and has a splendid Tudor chimney-piece. There are over twenty exceptionally beautiful bedrooms, several with wagon plaster ceilings. The largest drawing-room overlooks the moat, where are ancient carp, and pink and white water-lilies. All windows are stone mullioned, with old leaded glass; some are exquisite oriels; and there are two famous stairways, one with dog gates. The antique furniture is valuable and historic. A fascinating feature of the house is a twisted chimney (secret of construction lost; the only other known by the advertiser to exist being at Hampton Court). All is in good repair; domestic offices perfect, and the great oak-beamed, stone-flagged kitchen has been copied by more than one artist. There are glorious old-world gardens, with an ornamental lake, some statues, fountains, sundials; terraces where white peacocks walk under the shade of giant Lebanon cedars; also a noble park, and particularly charming orchard with grass walks. Certain servants and gardeners will remain if desired; and this wonderful opportunity is offered for an absurdly low price to a tenant deemed suitable by the advertiser. Only gentlefolk, with some pretensions to intelligence and good looks, need reply, as the advertiser considers that this place would be wasted upon others. Young people preferred. For particulars, write T. B., Box F., theTimes."
We were both enraptured with the result of our joint inspirations. We could simplyseethe marvellous moated grange, and Terry thought that life would be bearable after all if he could live there. What a pity it didn't exist, he sighed, and I consoled him by saying that there were perhaps two or three such in England. To my mind Courtenaye Abbey was as good, though moatless.
We decided to send our darling not only to theTimes, but to five other leading London papers, engaging a box at the office of each for the answers, the advertisement to appear every day for a week. In order to keep our identity secret even from the discreet heads of advertising departments, we would have the replies called for, not posted. Terry's man, Jones, was selected to be our messenger, and had to be taken more or less into our confidence. So fearful were we of being too late for to-morrow's papers, that Jones was rushed off in a taxi with instructions, before the ink had dried on the last copy.
Our suspense was painful, until he returned with the news that all the "ads." had been in time, and that everything was satisfactorily settled. The tidings braced us mightily. But the tonic effect was brief. Hardly had Terry said, "Thanks, Jones. You've been very quick," when we remembered that to-morrow would be a blank day. The newspapers would publish T. B.'s advertisement to-morrow morning. It would then be read by the British public in the course of eggs and bacon. Those who responded at once, if any, would be so few that it seemed childish to think of calling for letters that same night.
"I suppose, if you go the rounds in the morning of day after to-morrow, it will be soon enough," Terry remarked to the ex-soldier, with the restrained wistfulness of a child on Christmas Eve asking at what hour Santa Claus is due to start.
I also hung upon Jones' words; but still more eagerly upon Captain Burns' expression.
"Well, sir," said the man, his eyes on the floor—I believe to hide a joyous twinkle!—"that might be right for letters. But what about the telegrams?"
"Telegrams!" we both echoed in the same breath.
"Yes, sir. When the managers or whatever they were had read the 'ad.,' they were of opinion there might be telegrams. In answer to my question, the general advice was to look in and open the boxes any time after twelve noon to-morrow."
Terry and I stared at each other. Our hearts beat. I knew what his was doing by the state of my own. He who would have sold his life for a song (a really worthwhile song) was eager to preserve it at any price till his eyes had seen the full results of our advertisement.
Telegrams!
Could it be possible that there would be telegrams?
I invited Terry to breakfast with me at nine precisely next day, and each of us was solemnly pledged not to look at a newspaper until we could open them together.
We went to the theatre the night before (the first time Terry could endure the thought since his illness), and supped at the Savoy afterward, simply to mitigate the suffering of suspense. Nevertheless, I was up at seven-thirtyA. M., and at eight-forty-eight was in the breakfast room gazing at six newspapers neatly folded on the flower-decked table.
At eight-fifty-one, my guest arrived, and by common consent we seized the papers. He opened three. I opened three. Yes, there itwas! How perfect, how thrilling! How even better it appeared in print than we had expected! Anxiously we read the other advertisements of country houses to let or sell, and agreed that there was nothing whose attractions came within miles of our, in all senses of the word, priceless offer.
How we got through the next two and a half hours I don't know!
I say two and a half advisedly: because, as Jones had six visits to pay, we thought we might start him off at eleven-thirty. This we did; but his calmness had damped us.Hewasn't excited. Was it probable that any one else—except ourselves—could be?
Cold reaction set in. We prepared each other for the news that there were no telegrams or answers of any sort. Terry said it was no use concealing that this would be a bitter blow. I had not the energy to correct his rhetoric, or whatever it was, by explaining that a blow can't be bitter.
Twelve-thirty struck, and produced no Jones; twelve-forty-five; one; Jones still missing.
"I ought to have told him to come back at once after the sixth place, even if there wasn't a thing," said Terry. "Like a fool, I didn't: he may have thought he'd do some other errands on the way home, if he'd nothing to report. Donkey! Ass! Pig."
"Captain Burns' man, your highness," announced my maid. "He wants to know——"
"Tell him to come in!" I shrieked.
"Yes, your highness. It was only, should he bring them all in here, or leave them in Mr. Carstairs' apartment below."
"All!" gasped Terry.
"Here," I commanded.
Jones staggered in.
You won't believe it when I tell you, because you didn't see it. That is, you won't unlessyouhave insertedtheAdvertisement of the Ages—the Unique, the Siren, the Best yet Cheapest—in six leading London journals at once.
There were eight bundles wrapped in newspaper. Enormous bundles! Jones had two under each arm, and was carrying two in each hand, by loops of string. As he tottered into the drawing room, the biggest bundle dropped. The string broke. The wrapping yawned. Its contents gushed out. Not only telegrams, but letters with no stamps or post-marks! They must have been rushed frantically round to the six offices by messengers.
It was true, then, what the newspapers said: all London, all England, yearned, pined, prayed for houses. Yet people must already be livingsomewhere!
Literally, there were thousands of answers. To be precise, Captain Burns, Jones, and I counted two thousand and ten replies which had reached the six offices by noon on the first day of the advertisement: one thousand and eight telegrams; the rest, letters dispatched by hand. Each sender earnestly hoped that his application might be the first! Heaven knew how many more might been route! What a tribute to the Largest Circulations!
Jones explained his delay by saying that "the stuff was coming in thick as flies"; so he had waited until a lull fell upon each great office in turn. When the count had been made by us, and envelopes neatly piled in stacks of twenty-four on a large desk hastily cleared for action, Terry sent his servant away. And then began the fun!
Yes, it was fun: "fun for the boys," if "death to the frogs." But we hadn't gone far when between laughs we felt the pricks of conscience. Alas for all these people who burned to possess our moated grange "practically free," at its absurdly low rent! And the moated grange didn't exist. Not one of the unfortunate wretches would so much as get an answer to his S. O. S.
They were not allNouveaux Richesby any means, these eager senders of letters and telegrams. Fearing repulse from the fastidious moat-owner, they described themselves attractively, even by wire, at so much the word. They were young; they were of good family; they were lately married or going to be married. Their husbands or fathers were V. C.'s. There was every reason why they, and they alone, should have the house. They begged that particulars might be telegraphed. They enclosed stamps on addressed envelopes. As the moated grange was "rich in old oak," so did we now become rich in new stamps! Some people were willing to take the house on its description without waiting to see it. Others assured the advertiser that money was no object to them; he might ask what rent he liked; and these were the ones on whom we wasted no pity. If this was what the first three hours brought forth, how would the tide swell by the end of the day—the end of theweek? Tarpeia buried under the shields and bracelets wasn'tinit with us!
Terry and I divided the budget, planning to exchange when all had been read. But we couldn't keep silent. Every second minute one or other of us exploded: "Youmusthear this!" "Just listen toonemore!"
About halfway through my pile, I picked up a remarkably alluring envelope. It was a peculiar pale shade of purple, the paper being of rich satin quality suggesting pre-war. The address of the newspaper office was in purple ink, and the handwriting was impressive. But what struck me most was a gold crown on the back of the envelope, above a purple seal; a crown signifying the same rank as my own.
I glanced up to see if Terry were noticing. If he had been, I should have passed the letter to him as abonne bouche, for this really washisshow, and I wanted him to have all the plums. But he was grinning over somebody's photograph, so I broke the seal without disturbing him.
I couldn't keep up this reserve for long, however; I hadn't read far when I burst out with a "By Jove!"
"What is it?" asked Terry.
"We've hooked quite a big fish," said I. "Listen to this: 'The Princess Avalesco presents her compliments to T. B., and hopes that he will——' but, my goodnessgracious, Captain Burns! What's the matter?"
The man had gone pale as skim-milk, and was staring at me as though I'd turned into a Gorgon.
"Read the name again, please," Terry said, controlling his voice.
"Avalesco—the Princess Avalesco." I felt suddenly frightened. I'd been playing with the public as if people were my puppets. Now I had a vague conviction at the back of my brain that Fate had made a puppet of me.
"I thought so. But I couldn't believe my own ears," said Terry. "Good heavens! what a situation!"
"I—don't understand," I hesitated. "Perhaps you'd rather not have me understand? If so, don't tell me anything."
"I must tell you!" he said.
"Not unless you wish."
"I do! We are pals now. You've helped me. Maybe you can go on helping. You'll advise me, if there's any way I can use this—thisamazingchance."
I said I'd be glad to help, and then waited for him to make the next move.
Captain Burns sat as if dazed for a few seconds, but presently he asked me to go on with the letter.
I took it up where I'd broken off. "Compliments to T. B., and hopes that he will be able to let his moated grange to her till the end of September. The Princess feels sure, from the description, that the place will suit her. T. B. will probably know her name, but if not, he can have any references desired. She is at the Savoy and has been ill, or would be glad to meet T. B. in person. Her companion, Mrs. Dobell, will, however, hold herself free to keep any appointment which may be made by telephone. The Princess hopes that the moated grange is still free, and feels that, if she obtains early possession, her health will soon be restored in such beautiful surroundings. P. S.—The Princess is particularly interested in thetwisted chimney, and trusts there is a history of the house."
I read fast, and when I'd finished, looked up at Terry. "If you have a secret to tell, I'm ready with advice and sympathy," said my eyes.
"When the Princess Avalesco was Margaret Revell, I was in love with her," Terry Burns answered them. "I adored her! She was seven or eight years older than I, but the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Of course she wouldn't look at me! I was about as important as a slum child to her. In America, the Revells were like your royalties. She was a princess, even then—without a title. To get one, she sold herself. To think thatsheshould answer that fool advertisement of ours! Heavens! I'm like Tantalus. I see the blessed water I'd give my life to drink, held to my lips, only to have it snatched away!"
"Why snatched away?" I questioned.
"'Why?' Because if therewerea moated grange, I could meet her. Her husband's dead. You know he was killed before Roumania'd been fighting a week. Things are very different with me, too, these days. I'm a man—not a boy. And I've come into more money than I ever dreamed I'd have. Not a huge fortune like hers, but a respectable pile. Who knows what might have happened? But there'snomoated grange, and so——"
"Why shouldn't there be one?" I broke in. And while he stared blankly, I hurried on. I reminded Captain Burns of what I had said yesterday: that there were houses of that description, more or less, in England,realhouses!—my own, for instance. Courtenaye Abbey was out of the question, because it was let to my cousin Jim, and was being shown to the public as a sort of museum; but there were other places. I knew of several. As Captain Burns was so rich, he might hire one, and let it to the Princess Avalesco.
For a moment he brightened, but a sudden thought obscured him, like a cloud.
"Not places with twisted chimneys!" he groaned.
This brought me up short. I stubbed my brain against that twisted chimney! But when I'd recovered from the blow, I raised my head. "Yes, places with twisted chimneys! At least,onesuch place."
"Ah, Hampton Court. You said the only other twisted chimney was there."
"Theadvertisementsaid that."
"Well——"
"It's a pity," I admitted, "that I thought of the twisted chimney. It was an unnecessary extravagance, though I meant well. But it never would have occurred to me as an extra lure if I hadn't known about a house where such a chimney exists. The one house of the kind I ever heard of except Hampton Court."
Terry sprang to his feet, a changed man, young and vital.
"Can we get it?"
"Ah, if I knew! But we can try. If you don't care what you pay?"
"I don't. Not a—hang."
I, too, jumped up, and took from my desk a bulky volume—Burke. This I brought back to my chair, and sat down with it on my lap. On one knee beside me, Terry Burns watched me turn the pages. At "Sc" I stopped, to read aloud all about the Scarletts. But before beginning I warned Terry: "I never knew any of the Scarletts myself," I said, "but I've heard my grandmother say they were the wickedest family in England, which meant a lot fromher. She wasn't exactly asaint!"
We learned from the book what I had almost forgotten, that Lord Scarlett, the eleventh baron, held the title because his elder brother, Cecil, had died in Australia unmarried. He, himself, was married, with one young son, his wife being the daughter of a German wine merchant.
As I read, I remembered the gossip heard by my childish ears. "Bertie Scarlett," as Grandmother called him, was not only the wickedest, but the poorest peer in England according to her—too poor to live at Dun Moat, his place in Devonshire, my own county. The remedy was marriage—with an heiress. He tried America. Nothing doing. The girls he invited to become Lady Scarlett drew the line at anything beneath an earl. Or perhaps his reputation was against him. There were many people who knew he was unpopular at Court; unpopular being the mildest word possible. And he was middle-aged and far from good-looking. So the best he could manage was a German heiress, of an age not unsuited to his own. Her father, Herr Goldstein, lived in some little Rhine town, and was supposed to be rolling in marks (that was six or seven years before the war); however, the Goldsteins met Lord Scarlett not in Germany but at Monte Carlo, where Papa G. was a well-known punter. Luck went wrong with him, and later the war came. Altogether, the marriage had failed to accomplish for Bertie Scarlett's pocket and his place what he had hoped from it. And apparently the one appreciable result was a little boy, half of German blood. There were hopes that, after the war, Herr Goldstein's business might rise again to something like its old value, in which case his daughter would reap the benefit. Meanwhile, however, if Grandmother was right, things were at a low ebb; and I thought that Lord Scarlett would most likely snap at an offer for Dun Moat.
Terry was immensely cheered by my story and opinion. But such a ready-made solution of the difficulty seemed too good to be true. He got our advertisement, and read it out to me, pausing at each detail of perfection which we had light-heartedly bestowed upon our moated grange. "The twisted chimney and the moat aren't everything," he groaned. "Carp and water-lilies we might supply, if they don't exist; peacocks, too. Nearly all historic English houses are what the agents call 'rich in old oak.' But what about those 'exquisite oriels,' those famous fireplaces, those stairways, those celebrated ceilings, and corbels—whatever they are? No one house, outside our brains, can have themall. If anything's missing in the list she'll cry off, and call T. B. a fraud."
"She'll only remember the most exciting things," I said. "I don't see her walking round the house with the 'ad.' in her hand, do you? She'll be captured by thetout ensemble. But the first thing is to catch our hare—I mean our house. You 'phone to the companion, Mrs. Dobell, at once. Say that before you got her letter you'd practically given the refusal of your place to someone else, but that you met the Princess Avalesco years ago, and would prefer to have her as your tenant, if she cares to leave the matter open for a few days. She'll say 'yes' like a shot. And meanwhile, I'll be inquiring the state of affairs at Dun Moat."
"How can you inquire without going there, and wasting a day, when we might be getting hold of another place, perhaps, and—andbuildinga twisted chimney to match the 'ad.'?" Terry raged, walking up and down the room.
"Quite simply," I said. "I'll get Jim Courtenaye on long-distance 'phone at the Abbey, where he's had a telephone installed. He doesn't live there, but at Courtenaye Coombe, a village close by. However, I hear he's at the Abbey from morn till dewy eve, so I'll ring him up. What he doesn't know about the Scarletts he'll find out so quickly you'll not have time to turn."
"How do you know he'll be so quick?" persisted Terry. "If he's only your forty-fourth cousin he may be luke-warm——"
I stopped him with a look. "Whatever else Jim Courtenaye may be, he'snotluke-warm!" I said. "He has red hair and black eyes. And he is either my fiercest enemy or my warmest friend, I'm not sure which. Anyhow, he saved my life once, at great trouble and danger to himself; so I don't think he'll hesitate at getting a little information for me if I pay him the compliment of calling him up on the 'phone."
"Isee!" said Terry. And I believe he did see—perhaps more than I meant him to see. But at worst, he would in future realize that thereweremen on earth not so blind to my attractions as he.
While Terry 'phoned from the Carstairs' flat to the companion of Princess Avalesco, I 'phoned from mine to Jim. And I could not help it if my heart beat fast when I in London heard his voice answering from Devonshire. He has one of those nice, drawly American voices thatdomake a woman's heart beat for a man whether she likes him or hates him!
I explained what I wanted to find out about the Scarletts, and that it must be "quite in confidence." Jim promised to make inquiries at once, and when I politely said: "Sorry to give you so much bother," he replied, "You needn't letthatworry you, my dear!"
Of course, he had no right to call me his "dear." I never heard of it being done by thebest"forty-fourth cousins." But as I was asking a favour of him, for Terry Burns' sake I let it pass.
These Americans, especially ex-cowboy ones,doseem to act with lightning rapidity. I suppose it comes from having to lasso creatures while going at cinema speed, or else getting out of their way at the same rate of progress! I expected to hear next morning at earliest, but that evening, just before shutting-up time for post offices, my 'phone bell rang. Jim Courtenaye was at the other end, talking from the Abbey.
"Lord and Lady Scarlett are living at Dun Moat," he said, "with their venomous little brute of a boy; and they must be dashed hard up, because they have only one servant in their enormous house, and a single gardener on a place that needs a dozen. But it seems that Scarlett has refused several big offers both to sell and let. Heaven knows why. Perhaps the man's mad. Anyhow, that's all I can tell you at present. They say it's no good hoping Scarlett will part. But I might find outwhyhe won't, if that's any use."
"It isn't," I answered. "But thanks, all the same. How did you get hold of this information so soon?"
"Very simply," said Jim. "I ran over to the nearest town, Dawlish, in the car, and had a pow-wow with an estate agent, as if I were wanting the house myself. I'm just back."
"You really are good!" I exclaimed, rather grudgingly, for Grandmother and I always suffered in changing our opinions of people, as snakes must suffer when they change their skins.
"I'd do a lot more than that for you, you know!" he said.
I did know. He had already done more—much more. But my only response was to ring off. That was safest!
Next morning Terry Burns and I took the first train to Devonshire, and at Dawlish hired a taxi for Dun Moat, which is about twelve miles from there.
We were going to beard the Scarlett lion in his den!
"I must andshallhave this place!" Terry said, as our humble taxi drove through the glorious old park, and came in sight of the house.
There were the old-world gardens; the statues; the fountains (it was a detail that they didn't fount!); there were the white peacocks (moulting); there was the moat so crammed with water-lilies that if the Scarletts had eaten the carp, they would never be missed. There were the "exquisite oriels," and above all, there was the twisted chimney!
An air of tragic neglect hung over everything. The grass needed mowing; the flowers grew as they liked. Glass was even missing from several windows. Still, it was miraculously the twin of the place we had described in our embarrassingly perfect "ad."
As we stood in front of the enormous, nail-studded door, and Terry pressed again and again an electric bell (the one modern touch about the place), he had the air of waiting a signal to go "over the top."
"You look fierce enough to bayonet fifty Boches off your own bat!" I whispered.
"Lady Scarlettisa Boche, isn't she?" he mumbled back. And just then—after we'd rung ten times—an old woman opened the door—a witch of an old woman; a witch out of a German fairy-book.
The instant I saw her, I felt that there wassomething wrongabout this house. From under wrinkled lids the woman peered out, ratlike; and though her lips were closed—leaving the first word to us—her eyes said, "What the devil do you want? Whatever it is, you won't get it, so the sooner you go the better."
We had planned that I should start the ball rolling, by mention of my grandmother's name. But Terry was bursting with renewed interest in life, and the woman was answering his question before I had time to speak. "Let the place? No, sir! His lordship refuses all offers. It is useless to make one. He does not see strangers."
"We are not strangers," I rapped out with all Grandmother's haughtiness. "Tell Lord Scarlett that the Princess di Miramare, grand-daughter of Mrs. Raleigh Courtenaye, wishes a few words with him."
Thatwas the way to manage her! She came of a breed over whom for centuries Prussian Junkers had power of life and death; and though she spoke English, it was with the precise wording of one who has learned the language painfully. In me she recognized the legitimate tyrant, and yielded.
We were admitted with reluctance into a magnificent hall which magically matched our description: stone-paved, with a vaulted roof, and an immense oriel window the height of two stories. While our gaze travelled from the carved stone chimney-piece to ancient suits of armour, and such Tudor and Jacobean furniture as remained unsold, a slight sound attracted our attention to the "historic staircase," with its "dog-gates."
A woman was coming down. She had knitting in her hand, and had dropped one of her needles. It was that which made the slight noise we'd heard; and Terry stepped quickly forward to pick it up.
His back was turned to me as he offered the stiletto-like instrument to its owner, so I could not see his face. But I could imagine that charming smile of his, as he looked up at the figure on the stairs. Just so might Sir Walter Raleigh have looked when he'd neatly spread his cloak for Queen Bess; and if he had happened to ask a favour then, it would have been hard for the sovereign to resist!
The woman coming downstairs did not resemble any portrait of the Virgin Queen. She was stout and short-necked; and with her hard, dark face, her implacable eyes, and her knitting, was as much like Madame Defarge in modern dress as a German could be. But even Madame Defarge was a woman! And probably she used her influence now and then in favour of some handsome male head, preferring to see female ones pop into the sawdust!
Her face softened slightly as she accepted the needle, and stiffened again as I came forward.
"My husband is occupied," she said, in much the same stilted English as that of her old servant. "He sends his compliments to the Princess di Miramare and her friend, and hopes both will excuse him. If it is an offer for our place you have come to make, I must refuse in his name. We do not wish to move."
Her tone, her expression, gave to her words the solemnity of an oath sworn by a houseful of Medes and Persians.
It seemed that there was nothing left for us to do, save bow to Lady Scarlett's decision, and retire defeated to our taxi. But I felt that my reputation as a Brightener was at stake, with Terry's hopes. If we failed, instead of brightening I should have blighted him for ever! That couldn't, shouldn't be!
All there was of me yearned for an inspiration, and it came.
"My friend, Captain Burns, wouldn't ask you to move," I heard myself saying. "He's so anxious to have Dun Moat that he'd offer you any rent within reason, and would invite you to select some retired rooms for yourselves, where you might live undisturbed by the tenant. This house is so large it occurs to me that such an arrangement wouldn't be uncomfortable."
Terry flashed me a look of amazement, which turned to acquiescence; and the surprise on Lady Scarlett's face was encouraging. Evidently no one else had made such a suggestion. She seemed not only astonished, but tempted.
For a moment she reflected; then admitted that my proposal was a new one. She would submit it to her husband. They would talk it over if we cared to wait. We did care to; and the lady vanished like a stout ghost into the dimness of stony shadows.
Terry said that he felt his head growing gray, hair by hair, with suspense; but when Lady Scarlett came back at last no change could be seen by the naked eye.
"My husband and I will consider your proposal," she said, "provided the price is satisfactory, and taking it for granted that we agree on the rooms for our occupation. We should want those known as the 'garden court suite.' And we should ask one hundred and fifty pounds a week, for a possible term of ten weeks, on the proviso that we could terminate the tenancy with a fortnight's notice at any time after the first month."
I was dumbfounded. The place, unique and beautiful as it was, had been allowed to run down so disastrously, and everything outside and inside seemed to be in such a state of disrepair, that it was worth at most a rent of thirty guineas a week. Terry might call himself rich, but surely he'd not consent to being rooked to that extent, in order to be landlord to his love. I expected him to protest, to bargain, and beat the lady down. But he brushed the financial question away like a cobweb, and began to haggle about the rooms.
"The money part will be all right," he said. "But I want a lady to come here—a lady who's been ill. She must have the prettiest rooms there are: something overlooking the moat, with jolly oriel windows and plenty of old oak."
Lady Scarlett smiled. "There is no obstacle to that! The suite I specify is at the far end of the house, in a comparatively modern wing, and most people would think it the least desirable. We like it because it is compact and private. We can keep it going with one servant. It is called the 'garden court suite' because it is built round a small square. There is a separate outside entrance, as well as one door communicating with the house. The suite has generally been occupied by a bachelor heir."
As she talked, Terry reflected. "Look here, Lady Scarlett!" he exclaimed, just contriving not to break in. "I've half a mind to confide in you. The truth is, I want to pose as the owner of this place. I suppose you wouldn't sell it?"
"We could not if we would," replied the daughter of the German wine-seller. "It is entailed and the entail cannot be broken till our son comes of age."
"That settlesthat! But you said beforehand, nothing would induce you to turn out——"
"No money you could offer: not a thousand, not ten thousand a week—at least, at present. The garden court suite is the one solution."
"Well, so be it! But—I beg your pardon if I'm rude—could you—er—seem not to be there? Could I say I'd lent the rooms to someone I didn't like to turn out? If you'd consent, I'd make it two hundred a week."
Lady Scarlett's blackberry-and-skim-milk eyes lit. "You want the lady to believe that you have bought Dun Moat?"
For answer, he told her of our advertisement, and the result. I thought this a mistake. You'd only to look at the woman to see that she'd no sense of humour; and to confide in a person without one is courting trouble. Besides, I still had that impression ofsomething wrong. I had no definite suspicion; but why had the Scarletts, poor as they were, determined to stick to the house? However, I could no more have stopped Terry Burns when he got going than I could have stopped a torrent by throwing in rose-petals. Which shows how he had changed. The worry a few days ago would have been to get him going!
As Lady Scarlett listened she knitted, with strong, predatory hands. Language, they say, is used to conceal thought. So, it occurred to me, is knitting. I felt, watching her as a wise mouse should watch a cat, that she was making up her mind to some action more beneficial to herself than Terry. But for my life I couldn't guess what. She seemed to weave a knitted screen between my mind and hers!
In the end, however, she announced that for two hundred pounds a week her family could—to all intents and purposes—blot itself temporarily out of existence, in the suite of the garden court. The American lady might believe them to be poor relations of Captain Burns, or even servants, for all she cared! Having arrived at this conclusion, she proposed fetching her husband, that an agreement of an informal kind might be drawn up. Again she vanished; and when Lord Scarlett appeared, it was alone.
There were a number of ancestral portraits hanging on the walls of the great hall: fox-faced men, most of them, with a prevailing, sharp-nosed, slant-eyed type; and "Bertie" Scarlett was no exception to the rule. As he came deliberately down the stairway which his wife had descended, I remembered a scandal of his youth that Grandmother had sketched. He'd been in a crack regiment once, and though desperately poor had tried to live as a smart man about town. At some country-house party he'd been accused of cheating at baccarat. The story was hushed up, but he had left the army; and people—particularly royalties—had looked down their noses at him ever since. His tweeds were shabby now, and he was growing middle-aged and bald; all the same he had the air of the leading man in acause célèbre. I hadn't liked his wife, and I liked him as little!
He made the same point as hers: that the agreement might be terminated by him (notby the tenant) with a fortnight's notice, given at any time after the first month. This was a queer proviso, as queer as the family resolve to remain on the spot. And it seemed to me that one was part and parcel of the other, though I couldn't see the link which united the two.
As for Terry, he puzzled over none of these things. He wanted the place even on preposterous terms. When Lord Scarlett had drawn up an agreement, his signature flashed across the paper like a streak of lightning, so wild was he to rush back to London bearing the news to his princess. Lord Scarlett—sure of his mad client—offered to have the agreement polished up in legal form without further bother for Captain Burns, and we were free to go.