“Sir Charles’s coming has done a lot for Egg. It has widened her horizon. You see, there are very few young people down here – especially men. I’ve always been afraid that Egg might marry someone simply from being thrown with one person only and seeing no one else.”
Mr. Satterthwaite had a quick intuition.
“Are you thinking of young Oliver Manders?”
Lady Mary blushed in ingenuous surprise.
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, I don’t know how you knew! I was thinking of him. He and Egg were together a lot at one time, and I know I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t like some of his ideas.”
“Youth must have its fling,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Lady Mary shook her head.
“I’ve been so afraid – it’s quite suitable, of course, I know all about him, and his uncle, who has recently taken him into his firm, is a very rich man; it’s not that – it’s silly of me – but – ”
She shook her head, unable to express herself further.
Mr. Satterthwaite felt curiously intimate. He said quietly and plainly:
“All the same, Lady Mary, you wouldn’t like your girl to marry a man twice her own age.”
Her answer surprised him.
“It might be safer so. If you do that, at least you know where you are. At that age a man’s follies and sins are definitely behind him; they are not – still to come… ”
Before Mr. Satterthwaite could say any more, Egg rejoined them.
“You’ve been a long time, darling,” said her mother.
“I was talking to Sir Charles, my sweet. He’s all alone in his glory.” She turned reproachfully to Mr. Satterthwaite. “You didn’t tell me the house-party had flitted.”
“They went back yesterday – all but Sir Bartholomew Strange. He was staying till tomorrow, but he was recalled to London by an urgent telegram this morning. One of his patients was in a critical condition.”
“It’s a pity,” said Egg. “Because I meant to study the house-party. I might have got a clue.”
“A clue to what, darling?”
“Mr. Satterthwaite knows. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. Oliver’s still here. We’ll rope him in. he’s got brains when he likes.”
When Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back at Crow's Nest he found his host sitting on the terrace overlooking the sea.
“Hullo, Satterthwaite. Been having tea with the Lytton Gore?”
“Yes. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Egg telephoned… Odd sort of girl, Egg… ”
“Attractive,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“H’m, yes, I suppose she is.”
He got up and walked a few aimless steps.
“I wish to God,” he said suddenly and bitterly, “that I’d never come to this cursed place.”
5
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: “He’s got it badly.”
He felt a sudden pity for his host. At the age of fifty-two, Charles Cartwright, the gay debonair breaker of hearts, had fallen in love. And, as he himself realised, his case was doomed to disappointment. Youth turns to youth.
“Girls don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves,” thought Mr. Satterthwaite. “Egg makes a great parade of her feeling for Sir Charles. She wouldn’t if it really meant anything. Young Manders is the one.”
Mr. Satterthwaite was usually fairly shrewd in his assumptions.
Still, there was probably one factor that he did not take into account, because he was unaware of it himself. That was the enhanced value placed by age on youth. To Mr. Satterthwaite, an elderly man, the fact that Egg might prefer a middle-aged man to a young one was frankly incredible. Youth was to him so much the most magical of all gifts.
He felt strengthened in his beliefs when Egg rang up after dinner and demanded permission to bring Oliver along and “have a consultation.”
Certainly a handsome lad, with his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and easy grace of movement. He had, it seemed, permitted himself to be brought – a tribute to Egg’s energy; but his general attitude was lazily sceptical.
“Can’t you talk her out of it, sir?” he said to Sir Charles. “It’s this appallingly healthy bucolic life she leads that makes her so energetic. You know, Egg, you really are detestably hearty. And your tastes are childish – crime – sensation – and all that bunk.”
“You’re a sceptic, Manders?”
“Well, sir, really. That dear old bleating fellow. It’s fantastic to think of anything else but natural causes.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Sir Charles.
Mr. Satterthwaite glanced at him. What part was Charles Cartwright playing tonight. Not the ex-Naval man – not the international detective. No, some new and unfamiliar rôle.
It came as a shock to Mr. Satterthwaite when he realised what that role was. Sir Charles was playing second fiddle. Second fiddle to Oliver Manders.
He sat back with his head in shadow watching those two, Egg and Oliver, as they disputed – Egg hotly, Oliver languidly.
Sir Charles looked older than usual – old and tired.
More than once Egg appealed to him – hotly and confidently – but his response was lacking.
It was eleven o’clock when they left. Sir Charles went out on the terrace with them and offered the loan of an electric torch to help them down the stony path.
But there was no need of a torch. It was a beautiful moonlight, Mr. Satterthwaite was not going to risk a chill. He returned to the Ship-room. Sir Charles stayed out on the terrace a little while longer.
When he came in he latched the window behind him, and striding to a side table poured himself out a whisky and soda.
“Satterthwaite,” he said, “I’m leaving here tomorrow for good.”
“What?” cried Mr. Satterthwaite, astonished.
A kind of melancholy pleasure at the effect he had produced showed for a minute on Charles Cartwright’s face.
“It’s the Only Thing To Do,” he said, obviously speaking in capital letters. “I shall sell this place. What it has meant to me no one will ever know.” His voice dropped, lingeringly… effectively.
After an evening of second fiddle, Sir Charles’s egoism was taking its revenge. This was the great Renunciation Scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers dramas. Giving Up the Other Man’s Wife, Renouncing the Girl he Loved.
There was a brave flippancy in his voice as he went on.
“Cut your losses – it’s the only way… Youth to youth… They’re made for each other, those two… I shall clear out… ”
“Where to?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
The actor made a careless gesture.
“Anywhere. What does it matter?” He added with a slight change of voice, “Probably Monte Carlo.”
And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, “In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd – what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary – alone. I have always been – a lonely soul… ”
It was clearly an exit line.
He nodded to Mr. Satterthwaite and left the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.
“But it won’t be the heart of a desert,” he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.
On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr. Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day.
“Don’t cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know you’re going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustn’t look back. No, I mustn’t look back.”
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr. Satterthwaite’s hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray.
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charles’s overnight decision. Nor could Mr. Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr. Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl.