Part 13

“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, where _do_ I 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’t_ think _B.’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 an_ histoire _this 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 of _août_,” 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. “_Damn_ it 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.