ATHALIA
“Ifeel,”said Fairfax, “that I must marry you.”
His partner threw back her head and laughed delightedly.
“I warn you,” she flashed, “I’m very rich.”
“Oh, but why ‘warn’?” said Fairfax, swinging her off her feet and then subsiding abruptly into a step of which the progressive nature was almost imperceptible. “Besides, I knew it before. Besides, if you had been poor, I shouldn’t have spoken.”
“Are you seriously asking me to be your wife?”
“I am. So far as you’re concerned, the advantages of such a course may not be obvious. To be perfectly frank, I can hardly see them myself. Still, you might do worse. At least, I’m clean, honest and sober.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Athalia Choate.
The man raised his eyebrows. Then he laid hold of the lady and started to dance.
It was a superb performance.
The floor was crowded, but, for all the notice of others that Fairfax seemed to take, it might have been empty. The two passed as one through the press, whirling, side-stepping, poising, translating every whim of the capricious measure into a masterpiece of motion. Athalia found herself treading as she had never trod before, yet making no mistake. The firm pressure upon her back became a powerful government, urging her to right or left, turning her, keeping her clear of collision, lifting her into the very spirit of the dance. The pace of the music grew hotter; the fury of the band, madcap. All about them people were labouring hilariously in a feverish endeavour to keep abreast of the rhythm. Fairfax’s feet moved like quicksilver . . . the two swam the length of the ballroom with a clean rush . . . he was doing another step, and she was late . . . she was off her feet, and he was thrusting again into the very heart of the crowd . . . her head——
Then the music stopped, and she was released.
“Am I sober?” said Punch Fairfax.
Miss Choate took a deep breath.
“Indubitably,” she said.
They made their way downstairs to a dim library, and Fairfax drew two chairs to the slow wood fire. Then he gave her a cigarette, lighted it, and took one himself.
“Will you do me a favour?” he said.
“Try me,” said Miss Choate.
“Be perfectly honest with me for a quarter of an hour.”
The lady knitted her brows.
“What do you mean?”
“That will appear,” said Fairfax. “The best way to learn a game is to start playing it. Now then. Are you averse to wedlock?”
Miss Choate started.
“I—I never agreed to play,” she said uneasily.
Punch pulled his moustache.
“It’s a very good game,” he said. “I have to answer, too—any question you ask.”
Athalia subjected the toe of a ridiculously tiny slipper to a prolonged scrutiny. At length—
“The answer,” she said, “is in the negative.”
“Good,” said Fairfax, marking the excellence of her instep. “I’m seven years older than you. As a matter of fact, I think that’s just about right. Do you agree?”
“I don’t disagree,” said Miss Choate slowly. “Anything between five and ten years. . . . When do I start?”
“When you please,” said Fairfax, comfortably exhaling smoke. “What a sweet pretty leg you’ve got! Do you like my style?”
Miss Choate swallowed.
“You are quick,” she said. “Of course, I’ve never played this before, so——”
“Neither have I,” said Punch. “I give you my word. Er, do you?”
The lady stared into the fire.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. If I had been poor, you wouldn’t have spoken, would you?”
“I should not.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t enough to keep you—us as we should be kept.”
Athalia laughed.
“ ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘loved I notcomfortmore.’ ”
“My dear,” said Punch, “that was most admirably put. It exactly represents my point of view, your point of view and the point from which, furiously as they would deny the impeachment, every rational male and female in this edifice views the rich vale of matrimony.”
Miss Choate raised her sweet eyebrows.
“We are a topping lot of wash-outs, aren’t we?” she said.
Fairfax shook his head.
“Not at all. We’re just wise. We have the sagacity to avoid the steep and narrow path which leads to heroism, because we blinkin’ well know that we should never get there.”
“But——”
“One moment. If Fortune puts us upon that path, as she may, that’s another matter. We get to heroism then. But if we choose it of our own free will—never. Never. Because, sooner or later, we always regret our choice. And there ain’t no admittance to ’eroism for gents wot regrets their choice.”
“I seem to know that line,” said Miss Choate. “Isn’t it out ofHis Sin against Her Love?”
Fairfax appeared to wince.
“Tennyson, dear, Tennyson. Hiawatha’s address to the Boy Scouts.”
There was a pregnant silence.
As soon as she could trust her voice—
“Aren’t you leaving love out of the question?” ventured Athalia.
“I don’t think so. I know love jettisons fear, but I don’t think it sandbags the instinct of self-preservation. I don’t mean that if you tottered into a bear-pit I wouldn’t go in to get you out. But if you dropped your lip-stick in—well, the bears could have it.”
“Supposing it was the only lip-stick I had?”
“Nothing doing,” said Fairfax.
“Supposing I said that if you got it out I’ld marry you?”
“Love doesn’t——”
“Don’t evade,” said Miss Choate. “There’s another ten minutes to go.”
Fairfax looked at her.
Silhouetted against the black of an old bureau, the delicate features looked especially beautiful. The smooth brow, the straight clean-cut nose, the sweet droop of the mouth—from temples to pert chin my lady’s face was a picture for men to kneel to.
Her squire covered his eyes.
“Rot it,” he said shakily. “I—I believe I should have a dart.”
Athalia permitted herself to smile.
“But if I was poor you wouldn’t?”
“No. For both our sakes. . . . Yes—I’m honest. For both. We’re earthy, you know. It’ld mean that we’ld have to come down—come down in the world. Well, I shouldn’t like that—I’ld hate it. And so would you. And on the top of it all I should always know two things—first, that I’d brought you down, and then that you might have married a richer man.”
“How would you bring me down if I was poor?”
“My dear, your face is your fortune—your face and your pretty ways. You might be poor as blazes, but as long as you stayed single you could dine and dance and sleep in half the ancestral homes of England.”
“Sort of second Queen Elizabeth?” said Athalia. “I must be nice.”
“Oh, but you are,” said Punch. “Most—er—most nice.”
“D’you mind speaking the truth?”
Fairfax moistened his lips.
“You are probably the most adorable woman in London to-day. I have never heard anything said of you which you would not have liked to hear. Finally, you are frequently indicated as a future Duchess: in fact, if you married me, I believe sterling would drop two stitches—I mean, points.”
“I wish I was poor,” said Miss Choate.
“What would you do?”
Again the lady smiled.
“I should probably marry you,” she said.
“But I shouldn’t ’ve asked——”
“I should waive that preliminary,” said Miss Choate calmly.
So soon as he could speak—
“You forward girl,” said Fairfax. “You wicked——”
“And you,” continued Athalia, “not having had any say in the matter, would go up the steep and narrow path to heroism—touching the ground in spots. I should see to that,” she added darkly.
Fairfax wiped his brow.
“Oh, the vixen,” he said. “Listen at her.”
“As it is,” said his companion, “though my feet are of clay—‘earthy,’ I think, was your expression—the man who marries me must think them of fine gold.”
Fairfax looked down his nose.
“There are plenty of coves,” he said, “who’ll tell you the tale. Besides, when I said you were earthy, I only meant ‘human.’ Hang it, Athalia, if I told you your little feet were golden, you’ld tell me to go straight home and sleep it off.”
“Also,” continued Miss Choate, “he must prefer my smile to any comfort that he has ever dreamed of.”
“But I do,” protested her swain. “Infinitely. They’re not in the same street.”
“Rot,” said Athalia. “You love your comfort best every time. My smile doesn’t come off with my pearls. If I was poor, my smile’ld still be there. But you wouldn’t want it then.”
“Of course I should. And if I was rich, I’ld have it. It’s not your money I want, but itisyour money we need. I’ve been honest about it. ‘Live and let live,’ you know.”
“Have you anything,” said Athalia, “but what you earn?”
“Not a bean,” was the cheerful reply. “I had sixty thousand, you know. But I’ve been through the lot.”
“Good,” said my lady. “Look here. Jobs tend to cramp the style——”
“They’re a weariness of the flesh,” sighed Punch.
“—and my husband’s style must not be cramped. If you’ll give up your job, I’ll—I’ll marry you.”
Punch Fairfax sat up, open-mouthed.
“What an’ keep me?”
“I’ll settle two thousand a year on you. That’s twice what you earn.”
There was an electric silence.
Then Punch rose with a laugh.
“ ‘Clean, honest and sober,’ ” he said quietly. “I see that I should have added ‘respectable’: but, to tell you the truth, I——”
“Sit down, Punch, me lad,” said Athalia Choate. “Dismount and sit down. You’ve given the answer I wanted. Not that I really doubted, but—one likes to make sure.”
Fairfax regarded her thoughtfully. Then—
“Talk about edgywedged tools,” he said, resuming his seat. “Supposing I’d said ‘D-d-done!’—all quick like, with bulging eyes. . . .”
Athalia laughed.
“I should have found a way,” she murmured. “And now go on—ask me. There’s still five minutes to go.”
“As you please,” said Punch. “Why does one like to make sure?”
“Because, so far as I’m concerned, there are only two starters for the Athalia Stakes—and you’re one of them.”
“Athalia!”
“Wait. I’ll be perfectly straight with you. I’ve had one or two proposals—most women have. But as yet I haven’t had one from . . . the man I love.” Her companion started. “That’s often the way, you know. Perhaps I shall never have it. Many women don’t. . . . But oh”—she laced her slight fingers, set them against her cheek and raised her eyes ecstatically—“oh, I hope I shall, Punch. If you knew what it meant to me! I’ld be so awfully happy. . . .”
“Well, I—I hope you will, too,” said Fairfax dismally. “I—I do really. . . . But what are you telling me this for?”
“Because you can help me. You see, he is such a dear, but, though we’re quite good friends, the idea of falling in love with me doesn’t seem to have entered his head. And, if he saw us together, I think it might make him think.”
Fairfax laughed hysterically.
“Excuse my emotion,” he said. “The—the humour of it’s sort of dawning on me—that’s all.”
“ ‘Humour’?” cried Athalia.
“Humour—‘h’ mute. Let me explain. Only two runners for the Stakes, of which I’m one and the other won’t start. So I’m to show off my paces—play about on the course and generally show the other what fun running is, and then when it finally dawns on him that if he follows the rails they’ll bring him to the post, I’m to—— Well, wheredoI come in? I suppose I get a lump of sugar and a dazzling smile.”
“Perhaps,” said Athalia dreamily, “the other’ll never start.”
Punch set his teeth.
“Does it occur——”
“Perhaps,” continued Athalia, “when he does, you’ll leave him standing.” The man stared. “That’s my trouble. I love him desperately now—possibly because he doesn’t love me. But, once he’s started, you may go right away.”
Fairfax fingered his chin.
“D’you really think that likely?”
“It’s quite on the cards. At the moment I like you and I love him. So I obviously can’t marry you. If once he gets going, I shall see him in quite a new light. And then—why, I mayn’t love him at all.”
“Are you sure you’ve got it right?” said Punch. “I mean, these ’ere love-squalls are very tricky. Perhaps you don’t really care about either of us. I’m sure you think you do, but perhaps you don’t. I remember Dusty Bligh wobbling between Ray Darling, that was, and Monica Pump. Neither of the girls would have been seen dead with him, but that never entered his head. His trouble was that he couldn’t decide which to have. It was like a billiard match. In the afternoon Monica’ld be leading, and in the evening Ray’ld get her eye in and fairly walk away. It might have been going on now, if a widow with three kids hadn’t rolled up and pinched the prize.”
“Serve him right,” said Miss Choate. “But I’m not wobbling. Don’t you believe it. If the man I love would only propose to-night, I’ld fairly jump at him.”
“The devil you would,” said Fairfax.
“But he won’t,” said Athalia sadly. “Don’t be afraid.” A tender note slid into the fresh tones. “I think he’s love-shy. He’ll want a lot of leading. And then, as I’ve said, perhaps it won’t be the same.”
Punch frowned upon his finger-nails.
“You know, it’s all damned fine,” he said uneasily, “but in the course of this running-up stunt I may get fond of you.” He hesitated. Then—“Not soppy, you know, but—but troubled . . . go off my feed and that sort of thing. At the present moment I’m sorry, and there you are; but if I saw a lot of you, as you seem to suggest I should—well, I might easily get distracted. And then if the other gent comes off I’m carted good and proper, I am.”
Athalia shrugged her white shoulders.
“That’s your look-out. On the other hand, I may get fond of you. It’s a gamble, of course: but so are a lot of things. And I’ve told you the absolute truth. I needn’t have. Not one woman in a million would have. They’ld ’ve played you up all right without putting you wise. And you’ld ’ve blessed or cursed them according as it fell out. But I agreed to be honest—for a quarter of an hour. . . . Incidentally, I see the time’s up.”
“Make it twenty minutes,” said Fairfax hastily.
“Not for worlds,” said Athalia, with a bewitching smile. She rose and, standing a-tiptoe, peered at herself in the mirror above the hearth. “And now, which is it to be?”
Thoughtfully Punch regarded her exquisite form.
Presently the girl turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder.
In silence their eyes met.
At length—
“I feel I’m asking for trouble,” said the man, “but I may as well have a dart.” He rose, stepped to her side and took her small hands in his. “I don’t believe I’ve an earthly, Athalia dear, but, whatever happens, I’ll have been with you a bit, won’t I? And—when I’m hungry, I expect I’ll be glad of those crumbs.”
Miss Choate said nothing.
Fairfax kissed her cool fingers.
Six weeks had gone by, through which, so far as his secretaryship permitted, Punch had devoted his time to Athalia Choate. Three days out of five he saw her by hook or by crook. One night they danced together, another they dined. Twice, time being hard to come by, they had met before breakfast in the Row. On three out of seven Sundays they had spent the day in his car—a powerful grey two-seater, aged and greedy, but sound and good to look at. The comfort of its rubbed cushions stuck in the memory, like that of a glass of old port.
Such attention would not have been possible, but for the lady herself. Athalia’s parents were dead, and, though she visited America every autumn, the great mansion in Philadelphia was rented year after year, and its girlish landlord spent nearly all her time within hail of a beloved aunt. The latter had married one of the King’s Household. . . . The engagement-book of an exceptionally attractive heiress, so chaperoned, is apt to be full. But Athalia saw to it that Punch was not crowded out. More. True to the spirit of their contract, the girl never fobbed him off. Whenever he sought her company, she gave it with a quick smile. If his work made their meeting difficult, she helped him to find a way. If he bored her, she never showed it: if another should have stood in his shoes, she gave no sign. Only, though she had her own cars, she never used them once when Fairfax was there. Whatever the night, she came and went by taxi if Punch was to be her squire. And though two or three times he came to her uncle’s house, it was always to big parties, where he was one of a crowd. If she entertained herself, Fairfax was never asked.
That this faintly surprised the latter, the following letter will show. He wrote it to his twin sister, Lady Defoe.
July 18th, 1923.Dear Judy,The worst has happened. I knew it would. I’m off my feed. As gentle a brace of kidneys as ever you saw. . . . I give you my word, I had to cover them up—they stared so reproachfully. Well, it’s my own fault. I walked slap into the cage—Athalia showed me round it: together we looked at the bars. And now I can’t get out. I tell you I’ve got it bad. I’ve got to the mathematical stage—adding up how many hours before I see her again, subtracting so many for sleep and glaring at the balance as if it were a bad debt. Did you ever do that, Judy? And all the time I’m racking my rotten brain. . . . I’m sure it’s Beringhampton. I’m positive. He knew her before, of course: but he never sat up and took notice until a month ago. And now—well, Mary’s lamb isn’t in it. He’s always around somewhere—always. I happen to know he loathes racing, but the two days she was at Newmarket there he was. I must admit he’s good-looking—I think he’s the best-looking man I ever saw. But he’s a queer-tempered cove. And I’m sorry if he’s the man—as he surely is. You see, Judy, no one else fits. If you asked me to find a fellow who needed a lead, who didn’t know his own mind, who’ld keep on staring at a strawberry and thinking what a whopper it was without it entering his head that he might as well pick it—I should shout ‘Beringhampton.’ Everyone would. Oh, of course it’s him. ‘The man I love.’ Aren’t women funny? Of course I may be wrong. There’s plenty of other lads all over Athalia; but they’re not hard up for ideas. They don’t need any pushing: most’ld look a bit better with four-wheel brakes. Again, it may be someone who hasn’t stripped: but, if it is, they’re lying devilish low. I tell you I’ve racked my brain. . . . But whoever it is has done me in all right—mucking about like this. Damn it, they must love her, unless they’ve got tea in their veins. You’ve only got to see her for that. Then what’s their mouth for? And while they’re boggling, I’m being broken up. . . . And there you are. If somebody said, ‘All right: they shall speak to-night,’ I’ld knock his face through his head. I love my tenterhooks. You know—the ‘sweet sorrow’ stunt. I tell you, Judy, I’m on the edge of poetry. I want the business finished and I don’t want it finished. I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do.I want Athalia.I want her as I never wanted anything before. I thought I wanted her six weeks ago. ‘Want’? I didn’t know what the word meant. I’m absolutely mad about her, Judy. I don’t let her see it, you know, but when she appears I have to hold on to something or I’ld be jumping up and down. Her eyes, her hair, her blessed mouth—why, her little mouth’ld make most women, wouldn’t it? You do like her, don’t you? Of course I know you do, but just say so in your next letter. Just make up something nice and shove it in. It’ll be like a drink to me. . . . Well, I don’t know what’s to happen. We never fixed a time-limit, so this may go on for months. Sometimes I feel I can’t bear it—only last night I damned near had it all out. But then, if I do and she thinks the other cove’s warming up, everything’ll be queered: I shall be fired on the spot and my precious little bubble’ll become, as they say, disintegrated. Whereupon I shall seek the water under the earth. . . . At other times I’m afraid—terrified, Judy old girl, that the very next time I see her she’s going to say, ‘He’s won,’ and wring my hand and thank me for working Beringhampton up to the scratch. You see, she’s no idea that she’s shortening my life. She knows I’m out to marry her, but she doesn’t dream that I’m nearly off my head. I hide it all right, you know. Most casual, I am. And when she isn’t looking, I kiss her blessed gloves. . . .She doesn’t ask me to dinner. That shows how little she knows. Of course she’ld ask me if she thought I’ld care to come. It just doesn’t occur to her, Judy. I admit she asks Beringhampton—at least, she did last time. . . .I suppose you couldn’t write and suggest that she came to Biarritz. Wrap it up, you know. Say the bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that sort of wash. You see, I can get leave in August, and what more natural or pious than that I should come and see you? Incidentally, that’ld show us whether Beringhampton means business. If he follows her to Biarritz, he simply must speak.So long, Judy love,Punch.P.S.—Of course, it may be all over before August. I don’tthinkB.’s going strong, but, except for Sundays, I never see her by day. From ten to six he’s got the course to himself. These cursed idle rich. . . . I tell you I’m seeing the Labour point of view.P.P.S.—What anhistoirethis letter is! I’ve just been reading it through, and it’s shaken me up.I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming unbuttoned at last.
July 18th, 1923.
Dear Judy,
The worst has happened. I knew it would. I’m off my feed. As gentle a brace of kidneys as ever you saw. . . . I give you my word, I had to cover them up—they stared so reproachfully. Well, it’s my own fault. I walked slap into the cage—Athalia showed me round it: together we looked at the bars. And now I can’t get out. I tell you I’ve got it bad. I’ve got to the mathematical stage—adding up how many hours before I see her again, subtracting so many for sleep and glaring at the balance as if it were a bad debt. Did you ever do that, Judy? And all the time I’m racking my rotten brain. . . . I’m sure it’s Beringhampton. I’m positive. He knew her before, of course: but he never sat up and took notice until a month ago. And now—well, Mary’s lamb isn’t in it. He’s always around somewhere—always. I happen to know he loathes racing, but the two days she was at Newmarket there he was. I must admit he’s good-looking—I think he’s the best-looking man I ever saw. But he’s a queer-tempered cove. And I’m sorry if he’s the man—as he surely is. You see, Judy, no one else fits. If you asked me to find a fellow who needed a lead, who didn’t know his own mind, who’ld keep on staring at a strawberry and thinking what a whopper it was without it entering his head that he might as well pick it—I should shout ‘Beringhampton.’ Everyone would. Oh, of course it’s him. ‘The man I love.’ Aren’t women funny? Of course I may be wrong. There’s plenty of other lads all over Athalia; but they’re not hard up for ideas. They don’t need any pushing: most’ld look a bit better with four-wheel brakes. Again, it may be someone who hasn’t stripped: but, if it is, they’re lying devilish low. I tell you I’ve racked my brain. . . . But whoever it is has done me in all right—mucking about like this. Damn it, they must love her, unless they’ve got tea in their veins. You’ve only got to see her for that. Then what’s their mouth for? And while they’re boggling, I’m being broken up. . . . And there you are. If somebody said, ‘All right: they shall speak to-night,’ I’ld knock his face through his head. I love my tenterhooks. You know—the ‘sweet sorrow’ stunt. I tell you, Judy, I’m on the edge of poetry. I want the business finished and I don’t want it finished. I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do.I want Athalia.I want her as I never wanted anything before. I thought I wanted her six weeks ago. ‘Want’? I didn’t know what the word meant. I’m absolutely mad about her, Judy. I don’t let her see it, you know, but when she appears I have to hold on to something or I’ld be jumping up and down. Her eyes, her hair, her blessed mouth—why, her little mouth’ld make most women, wouldn’t it? You do like her, don’t you? Of course I know you do, but just say so in your next letter. Just make up something nice and shove it in. It’ll be like a drink to me. . . . Well, I don’t know what’s to happen. We never fixed a time-limit, so this may go on for months. Sometimes I feel I can’t bear it—only last night I damned near had it all out. But then, if I do and she thinks the other cove’s warming up, everything’ll be queered: I shall be fired on the spot and my precious little bubble’ll become, as they say, disintegrated. Whereupon I shall seek the water under the earth. . . . At other times I’m afraid—terrified, Judy old girl, that the very next time I see her she’s going to say, ‘He’s won,’ and wring my hand and thank me for working Beringhampton up to the scratch. You see, she’s no idea that she’s shortening my life. She knows I’m out to marry her, but she doesn’t dream that I’m nearly off my head. I hide it all right, you know. Most casual, I am. And when she isn’t looking, I kiss her blessed gloves. . . .
She doesn’t ask me to dinner. That shows how little she knows. Of course she’ld ask me if she thought I’ld care to come. It just doesn’t occur to her, Judy. I admit she asks Beringhampton—at least, she did last time. . . .
I suppose you couldn’t write and suggest that she came to Biarritz. Wrap it up, you know. Say the bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that sort of wash. You see, I can get leave in August, and what more natural or pious than that I should come and see you? Incidentally, that’ld show us whether Beringhampton means business. If he follows her to Biarritz, he simply must speak.
So long, Judy love,
Punch.
P.S.—Of course, it may be all over before August. I don’tthinkB.’s going strong, but, except for Sundays, I never see her by day. From ten to six he’s got the course to himself. These cursed idle rich. . . . I tell you I’m seeing the Labour point of view.
P.P.S.—What anhistoirethis letter is! I’ve just been reading it through, and it’s shaken me up.
I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming unbuttoned at last.
Seven days later Miss Choate confided to Fairfax that she had heard from Judy.
“Not my twin-sister?” said Punch, with a daring display of amazement.
“The same,” said Athalia. “Why shouldn’t I hear from her?”
“No reason at all,” said Punch, “except that she never writes. I’ve had six letters from her since she was married—that’s seven years ago. Mole says she’s a vegetarian—thinks it cruel to use ink, but, speakin’ as one who’s known her all her life except the first twenty minutes, I incline, as they say, to the view that she’s labour-shy. What does she say?”
“Suggests that I come to Biarritz. By way of inducement she adds:The bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that sort of wash.”
Mentally, Fairfax consigned Lady Defoe to a resort where the warmth would be still more remarkable.
“Must be losing her mind,” he said shortly. “What ‘wash’?”
“Can’t conceive,” said Miss Choate innocently. “Never mind. The point is, shall I go?”
“Why not?” said Punch. “It’s about the only place in Europe I know where you can bathe in comfort without a fleece-lined wet-off bathing-suit and a sealskin towel. I shouldn’t faint with surprise if I rolled up there myself. I want to see Judy, and my leave starts on the sixth.”
“I’m not sailing till the end of September,” said Athalia musingly, “so I could put in a month. I must confess I’ld rather like to get warm. When’s your Bank Holiday?”
“Sixth ofaoût,” said Punch. “I should give that a miss.”
“If I went on the fourth . . .” She sighed. “At least, it’ll be a change. After all, Life’s rather like a frock. If it’s to be a success, you must see it from every angle. Besides, to tell you the truth, I think it’ld be a good move—my suddenly leaving the stage. Nature abhors a vacuum.”
Fairfax’ heart stood still.
After an awkward silence—
“Is—is he showing any signs of life?” he said uncertainly.
Athalia looked away.
“I—I think so,” she whispered.
Upon being approached, Sir Charles Grist could see no reason at all why his secretary’s leave should not commence at five on Sunday afternoon instead of at twelve o’clock on Sunday night.
It was therefore eight-thirty o’clock of a pleasant August evening when the old grey two-seater slid through the streets of Newhaven and down to the idle quay.
Two other cars were waiting to go aboard. One was a green cabriolet with red wire wheels.
Fairfax knew it at once—and stopped in his tracks.
It was an Hispano-Suiza, the property of a nobleman—that, in fact, of the Most Honourable the Marquess of Beringhampton.
For a moment or two Punch stared at the equipage. Then he took out his case and lighted a cigarette.
“They’re off at last,” he said. “After seven weeks at the gate, at last they’re off. . . . If I wasn’t a blinkin’ fool, I should turn round and drive straight back. As it is . . .” He shifted uneasily. “Damnit all, why shouldn’t I have a run? Why shouldn’t I have it out before he comes—get there and have it out? An’ tell her he’s coming an’ then push gracefully off? I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ld like her to know how much I really cared.” He sat up suddenly. “By George, I will. When she knows he’s really off, perhaps she won’t——” He stopped short there, took off his hat and carefully wiped his face. Then he put on his hat, adjusted it carefully, thrust his cigarette between his lips, and folded his arms. “The art of Life,” he announced, “is to keep one’s bullet head. If I go, it’s simply because I’ve got nothing to lose.”
As the A.A. man came up—
“Last on the boat, first off—am I right?” said Fairfax.
“You are, sir.”
“Then put me on last, please.”
“I will, sir.”
Punch handed over his papers and sought for a drink.
As he passed into the hotel, Beringhampton came out.
“Hullo,” said Fairfax cheerfully. “Come and have another.”
The other stared.
“Are you crossing?” he said.
“I am that,” said Fairfax, “complete with automobile. Destination, B-B-B-Biarritz—where the rainbow ends.”
“What are you going there for?”
“Pleasure,” said Punch shortly. “And you?”
For a moment Beringhampton looked him in the face. Then the peer’s eyes fell to the mat at his feet.
“I never talk,” he said. “I never talk.”
He spat the words rather than spoke them.
“All right,” said Fairfax, laughing. “But come to the harbour bar and have a——”
“ ’S damned bad form to laugh,” flashed Beringhampton, and went his way.
Fairfax looked after him.
“The man’s mad,” he murmured. “Staring mad. Face like a Greek god, an’ a kink in his brain. . . . And to think she thinks she loves him!” He raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh, where’s the bar?”
That night in his cabin Fairfax remade his plans.
Between Dieppe and Biarritz lay five hundred and twenty miles. He had intended to stay one night on the road and had chosen Tours as his lodging. From Dieppe to Tours the distance was two hundred miles. Thus, travelling at ease, he would have come to Biarritz on Tuesday afternoon.
His meeting with Beringhampton had altered everything.
Generally, it suggested that any avoidable delay should be avoided. Specially, it emphasized the desirability of extreme haste, first, because Beringhampton would naturally propose to reach Biarritz before the grey two-seater, and, secondly, because the Hispano-Suiza was far and away the faster car.
Punch knitted his brows.
The boat would reach Dieppe at 4 a.m.: with luck his car could have passed the Customs and be actually on the road at five o’clock; and then—five hundred and twenty miles. . . .
Rejecting travellers’ tales in favour of the report of personal experience, Punch decided that if he could maintain an average of thirty-five miles an hour he would do extremely well. If he allowed two hours for meals and rest, that would bring him to Biarritz by ten o’clock. To shave, bathe, change and locate Athalia would take the best part of an hour. Eleven o’clock. Punch wrinkled his nose. Mercifully Miss Choate kept late hours . . . mercifully. . . . And this was assuming that he ran to time.
With a sigh, Fairfax took out tobacco and lighted a pipe.
By what hour the Hispano-Suiza could reach Biarritz he deliberately declined to calculate. The answer could do no good and would be discouraging. Given a car which can average fifty upon the open road, and a chauffeur to take the wheel when you feel tired. . . . But then who was to say that Beringhampton would go straight through? Besides . . .
Fairfax folded his map and took off his collar and shoes. Then he lay down on the seat and wished for the day.
This came in due season, fresh and cloudless: but other things first—the port of Dieppe, for instance, and shouts and clangings of the telegraph.
A press of miserable passengers, cold, heavy-laden, white-faced, squeezed and fought its way towards the steep gangway, stumbled up the rude slope, clattered over setts and metals and swarmed nervously into a grisly Custom House, there to protest despairingly that it had ‘nothing to declare.’ Blue-jerseyed porters, frantic with excitement, panted and screamed and staggered under stupendous loads. A steam crane swung to and fro about its business, responding with an uncanny intelligence to the medley of confused directions constantly hurled at its cab. Trucks, seemingly designed for uproar, bumped and rumbled and crashed from quay to platform, their governors bawling for ‘Attention’ in a monotonous drawl. A man in charge of a refreshment-waggon was crying his wares: another shouted recurringly that the train would not depart for thirty minutes and urged the prudence of a meal at the buffet: a boy was dismally chanting the names of newspapers; a porter who had lost his patrons was howling “Soixante-dix”: four Frenchmen were arguing explosively about ‘summer time’: a terrier was barking like a fiend: over all, the deafening roar of escaping steam strengthened the resemblance of the scene to the evacuation of hell. As if to clinch its identity, here and there stood the cloaked and hooded figures of Authority, motionless, silent, indifferent to the bustle and hubbub, smoking contemptuously, sinister, lynx-eyed. Their deliberate detachment from struggling humanity, their sullen observance and studied disregard of a thousand needs, were arguing a stony misanthropy, malicious, Satanic.
Fairfax watched and waited with an eye on the clock. So did Beringhampton. The latter’s chauffeur had a very bad time. It was not, of course, his fault that the officials declared their intention of disembarking the cars as they came. Neither, indeed, was it his fault that, when the cars were ashore, a certain necessary officer was not forthcoming. Yet he paid for this, as did the A.A. man—generously. The idea of waiting till seven did not appeal to Beringhampton—nor, for the matter of that, to Punch, either. Still, the latter kept his temper and cursed with a smile on his lips. . . .
While Beringhampton stalked off the quay in search of a lodging, Fairfax took off his coat and went over his car. Not so the Marquess’ chauffeur. After asking Punch if he could be of any assistance, the latter climbed into his charge and endeavoured to sleep. Injustice makes a bad servant. It also may do a rival a very good turn. It did—that Monday morning. Of the five cars to be cleared the grey two-seater was the first inspected and the Hispano-Suiza the fifth. Beringhampton raged. Then a tire was found flat, and the wheel had to be changed. . . .
While Punch was clear of Dieppe by seven-fifteen, it was half-past eight ere the other took the road.
A start of fifty miles was not to be sneezed at, but the ghastly delay of more than two hours had altered everything. Fairfax knew in his heart that his chances of reaching Biarritz upon the right side of midnight were very small. If he could average forty the whole of the way, well and very good. Otherwise, any interview he might have with Athalia would take place the following day. She kept late hours, certainly, but not so late as all that. On the other hand, barring accidents, there was no reason at all why a clear eye and a determined arm should not bring the Hispano-Suiza to Biarritz by nine o’clock. The devil of it was that Beringhampton must know that, if he but pleased to hurry, he could have the field to himself. The three hours lost would have been of no use to him. Had he arrived at six, by the time he had changed, Miss Choate would have gone to dress, and thence to dinner. Not till, say, half-past nine would he have had a look-in. And by then Fairfax might have come up to cramp his style. But now, if he pleased, he could have the field to himself. . . .
Punch swore beneath his breath and coaxed the grey two-seater to sixty-two.
He ran into Rouen as clocks were striking eight, and, meeting the river, followed it out of the town.
Past a quarry and up through the rising woods, over the glittering Seine, through Pont-de-l’Arche, by Louviers’ precious church, into mitred Evreux, where the broad road splits into a delta of aged streets, up over the railway and on to the rolling plain the grey two-seater flung like a thing possessed.
The first real check came at old Dreux, where it was market day. Horses and cattle and carts lumbered and lurched and sprawled and backed over the pavement, thrusting and being thrust: lorries panted and stormed, insistently demanding passage and finding none: little groups of peasants stood in the fairway, absorbed in discourse, shifting mechanically as the raving traffic pushed its way by: gossiping eagerly, old women plunged and bundled from side to side, apparently oblivious alike of time and place until dragged from under cartwheels or overthrown by collision: urchins were baiting dogs, set to guard tail-boards: gentle-eyed calves stared over sides of gigs: chickens, pinioned and thrown, eyed the welter with indignant surprise.
Ere he had time to withdraw, Punch was engulfed, and ten precious minutes went by before he was out of the town.
Troubles are gregarious.
Ten miles from Chartres a tire burst.
Fairfax changed the wheel and then, looking over his engine, found that his fan-strap had gone.
It was past ten now and becoming immensely hot. Not to repair the defect there and then would be the act of a fool. Punch shook the sweat from his eyes and sought for a spare. . . .
The sight of Chartres’ exquisite spires, rising like toy steeples out of the hazy plain, was comforting, but his relentless wrist-watch and the thought of a useless tire jabbed viciously at Fairfax’ nerves. He could not make up his mind whether to stop at Chartres and fit a new tire or to take what risk there was and go his way. As he swept up the boulevards he decided to stop for water and nothing else.
He must pass thePlace des Epars, and he knew a garage was there. . . . The next moment he saw its pump. He drew up to the gap in the kerb with a swift rush. . . .
While they were drawing water, he ran across thePlaceand purchased a pie. Thepâtésof Chartres are famous and a meal in themselves. Then he bought two bottles of Evian and hurried back. He found the mechanic regarding the near fore wheel. There was a gash in the cover through which you could see the tube. . . .
It was a quarter to eleven by the time he was out of Chartres, and Beringhampton passed him five miles beyond Vendôme.
Punch marked his passage mutely, with stony eyes. Then he slid under some trees and took out the clutch. . . .
He broke his fast quickly and then lay down in the grass by the side of the road. He knew what it meant to feel sleepy over the wheel. For perhaps ten minutes he dozed. Then he rose, bathed his face and swung himself into the car. . . .
The road was wicked now—broken to bits. The grey two-seater leaped like a young ram. But Fairfax let her have it and went like the wind. He had nothing to lose. . . .
The broken road took its toll, and when he slid into Tours, one of his wings was flapping and his number-plate hanging by a thread.
He pushed up theRue Nationale, to see Beringhampton’s colours crawling ahead.
With a hammering heart, Fairfax drew very close. . . .
As he slipped by he glanced round.
The chauffeur saw him and smiled and touched his hat. Except for him at the wheel, the car was empty.
Punch pulled into the side, and the other slowed up.
“Where’s his lordship?” said Fairfax.
The man’s lips tightened.
“He’s just taken the train, sir.”
“Why?”
“We ’ad a very near shave, sir, a mile or two back.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “As near to death as ever I want to be.” He paused. Then he burst out. “I’ve given ’im notice, sir. I’ve only got one life. If they mark a bend over ’ere, you can bet it’s a turn and a ’alf. I pointed ’im out the sign, but ’e didn’t care. . . . An’ a steam-roller waitin’ the other side.” He wiped his face. “I thought we was done, I did. . . . When we was through, I told ’im I’ld leave ’im at Tours. ’E asked me if I was afraid, an’ I said, Yes, I was. ‘Then drive,’ says he. ‘An’ be cursed an’ ’ounded,’ says I, ‘till I can’t think straight? Not much, my lord,’ I says. ‘I’ll leave at Tours.’ When we got ’ere ’e drove to the station an’ asked if there was a train. . . . Some train was there—movin’ . . . They ’auled ’im in and I pushed ’is dressing-case up. ‘Deliver the car,’ he cries, an’ there you are.”
“What filthy luck!” cried Punch, half to himself. “What filthy luck!”
The man looked at him curiously. Then he glanced at the car.
“You’re coming to pieces, sir. Are you going far?”
“Biarritz,” said Punch.
The fellow glanced at his clock.
“I suppose you’ll be needin’ your car, sir, or I—I could give you a lift.”
Fairfax’ heart leaped. Then he shook his head.
“I can’t use his car,” he said.
“It isn’t ’is car,” cried the man. “ ’E sold ’er a week ago—sold ’er to Mr. Fairie. ’E’s at St. Johndylose. An’ as ’e was goin’ to Beeritz, ’is lordship made the offer to bring ’er out.” He dived at a pocket. “Why, ’er papers an’ all’s in Mr. Fairie’s name.”
“Mr. Fairie of Castle Charing?”
“That’s right, sir. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I should think he was,” shouted Fairfax. “But I say—I want to move.”
The chauffeur smiled.
“She’ll move, sir. D’you know the way?”
“I do. D’you want any petrol?”
“I was just going to fill the tank, sir.”
“I know a garage here. You follow me.”
Ten minutes later the faithful grey two-seater had been worthily bestowed, the Hispano-Suiza’s tank had been filled to the brim and Fairfax had taken his seat beside her driver.
As they moved off—
“She’s better nor any train,” said the latter shortly.
If the surface was none too good, at least the way was straight and the road open. The reaches became gigantic: after each bend you could see for miles ahead. The traffic, too, was negligible. It was, indeed, the exception not to have the road to yourself.
With the roar of a lion, the great car leapt at her prey. . . .
Time and again the illusion of the frantic approach of things stationary was almost irresistibly real. Time and again, when the road rose and fell, the sensation of using a switchback was painfully acute. Time and again, as they passed another vehicle, the fierce cuff of uproar made Fairfax wince. Time and again pace dislocated sight and left the brain fumbling.
Villages sprang into being out of flat places: a huddle of distant dots shivered into a town: as for the eternal trees beside the road, they seemed no farther apart than a ladder’s rungs.
The windscreen was open, and the warm air tore at their ears: the thunder of the engine became a stock background of resonance against which other sounds stood up as against silence: it seemed that hearing was going the way of sight.
Presently came Poitiers.
They skirted the ancient city and streaked up the Ruffec road.
Punch began to wonder what time Beringhampton would arrive. If it was the Spanish Express which he had caught, he might, he reckoned, reach Biarritz by seven o’clock. That meant that at eight o’clock he could take the field—not a very convenient hour, but better than nine. Oh, infinitely better than nine. And if Athalia could help, of course she would. He had only to send up a note and ask her to give him ten minutes before she dined. . . .
Punch began to construct the interview with narrowed eyes, and presently, being very tired, he fell asleep.
The chauffeur roused him, to point to a fine old city piled up on a hill.
Fairfax could only stare.
It was Angoulême.
They swept the hem of her garment and on to the Bordeaux road.
It was during this lap most of all that the burden and heat of the day made themselves felt. The sun seemed to know that they were fighting with Time and to take up the cudgels upon his captain’s behalf. The fury of light and heat punished them mercilessly, scorching their faces, keeping their eyes hooded and making the muscles of their eyelids ache hideously with the strain. But the chauffeur never complained or slackened speed. The man understood well enough that Fairfax and Beringhampton were riding some race, and the memory of the stripes which the latter had laid upon him made him strain every nerve to bring the former home. Punch was certainly well horsed. The fellow knew his engine inside out: besides, he had done some racing and remembered the tricks of the trade.
There were times when the car swept like a blast of the wind: at others she whizzed like a shell shot out of a gun: now she swooped and sailed like a ranging gull, and now she soared up a hill with the rush of a lift: and once, on a good piece of road, for three long minutes she seemed to be standing still, heaving gently like a ship riding at anchor, while five miles of the countryside slid into and out of sight.
They ran into Bordeaux at a quarter to six.
There they took in petrol and ate and drank. And Fairfax called for a time-table and studied it while he fed. He might have spared his labour. The table was two years old, and the pages he needed were gone.
They were in the car again by six o’clock.
There was pavement to come now—some of it pretty bad. Who went by Salles avoided the very worst—and tacked ten miles on to his journey. Fairfax went by Salles: it was not his car.
He had his reward.
The sun had retired now and was well on their right: the air was cooler, and a faint tang of salt hung in its breath: the blessed evening was coming to ease their progress.
Fairfax never forgot that last long stretch.
The sun was going down, and the shadows were growing long, and distance was creeping close. Ahead and on either hand the countryside was gone: Earth seemed to have thrown back to the days before she was tamed: Nature ran wild. Forest and furze and broom had the world to themselves. And the car shore them in two as a draper’s scissors shear stuff—league after shining league, with a steady snarl. Twice they met a lorry and three times a touring car and twenty carts, perhaps, in nearly a hundred miles. . . .
They swept through St. Geours with twenty-five miles to go.
They dropped down into Bayonne, slipped across the Adour, swung to the right at cross-roads, and followed the tram-lines out.
They had to go slowly then, for the road was narrow and full. Still, they edged their way along, passing when there was room.
They floated into Biarritz at twenty-five minutes past eight. . . .
There was no room at the Carlton, but Lady Defoe was there, so they promised to squeeze Punch in.
As a porter picked up his suit-case—
“All right, sir?” queried the chauffeur.
The eagerness of his tone touched Fairfax’ heart.
As he gave him a note—
“Thanks to you—yes,” he said, smiling. “Good night—and many thanks.”
It would have been brutal to tell him anything else.
At last Punch found Athalia, by going from pillar to post. She was staying at thePalais, had dined out and come back to dance.
They danced a few steps. Then he led her out of the ballroom and into the August night.
“What is it?” she said.
“He’s here somewhere. Has he spoken?”
Athalia looked away.
“Not yet,” she said slowly. “Not yet, but—I think he will . . . any moment, now.”
Fairfax stared at the sea shifting to and fro and the line of miniature breakers curling and roaring as gently as sucking doves.
He had done it—achieved his purpose. It seemed impossible that only that morning he had stood on the quay at Dieppe and gone over the car. Yet he had done so—that morning. And now—here he was at Biarritz. And there was Athalia looking at him with steady eyes. And Beringhampton had not spoken. . . . He was—in time.
The tragedy of it washe had nothing to say.
Therewasnothing to say. He had meant to ‘have it out.’ He had torn across France like a madman to ‘have it out.’ Have what out? There was nothing to have out. Athalia had said as much . . .any moment, now. . . . In the face of that, how could he——
He began to wonder whether such a giant fool’s errand had ever been run before.
Athalia was speaking.
“What is it, Punch? You didn’t start a day early to ask me that.”
“I didn’t start a day early.”
A puzzled look came into the great brown eyes.
“But you can’t have——”
“Yes, I did,” said Fairfax. “I got to Dieppe this morning and came down by road. I started from there at seven and got here at half-past eight.”
Athalia started.
Then she caught at his arm.
“Punch, Punch! You might have broken your neck! Why—why did you come so terribly fast?”
The man hesitated.
“Why?” breathed Athalia.
Punch swung round and caught her hands in his.
“Will you forgive me if I tell you?”
“I’ve asked you to.”
“Why, then, it’s because I had to—had to get here and see you before he came. I couldn’t stand by, Athalia, and watch you step out of my life without a word. I’m mad—crazy about you. I can’t think of anything else. When I’m not with you everything’s dull and flat, and the only way I get through is by thinking of what you look like and how soon I’ll see you again. Your hair, your eyes, your temples, your precious, darling mouth—I know every tiny look of them. If I could paint, I’ld paint your portrait from memory without a slip. I know your hands and the shape of your tiny nails, and I’ld know your step from a million if you were going by. Oh, my lady, I do love you so. I thought I did when I asked you to be my wife, but I didn’t at all. I hadn’t begun to love you. But now . . . Oh, Athalia, my sweet, I’ve tried to play the game. You don’t know what it’s meant to sit by your side in the car and see your face at my shoulder and hold my tongue. I’ve had to hold on to myself to keep my head. When I said that but for your money I wouldn’t have opened my mouth, I must have been mad. If you hadn’t a bean—why, I’ld go across Europe on my hands and knees and beg and pray you to let me ‘bring you down.’ Yes, I’ve got to that, my lady. Bringing you down or no—I’ld beg and pray. You see, I’ve turned selfish. You’ve come to mean too much, and that’s the truth.” He stopped short there. Then he let fall her hands and turned to the sea. “And there you are, sweetheart—I can call you that this once. You asked me why I hurried, and now you know. If he’d spoken before I got here, I couldn’t have told you this. And I felt I wanted you to know. That’s all. I just wanted you to know . . . how very much . . . I cared.”
For a moment the girl said nothing.
Then—
“I’m glad you did,” she said gently, “awfully glad. And now I’ll tell you a secret. The Athalia Stakes have been won.”
“Won!”
“Won. Listen. The result was a dead heat.”
Fairfax started.
“But you said he hadn’t spoken.”
“I know. Never mind. He has. And you’ve dead-heated—you and . . . the man I love.”
Punch put a hand to his head.
“Well, here’s a go,” he said. “What do we do now? You can’t marry us both.”
With a half-laugh, half-sob, Athalia slid her arms round his neck.
“Yes, I can, my darling. You see, you’re both called Punch.”