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