Part 14

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 the _Place 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 the _Place_ and purchased a pie. The _pâtés_ of 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 the _Rue 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 the _Palais_, 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 was _he had nothing to say_.

There _was_ nothing 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.”

ANN

ANN

Lady Ann Minter alighted thankfully.

After the burden and heat of the third-class carriage the evening air of Suet was like a drink of water—out of a dirty mug. Still, it was water: and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar’s finger made a desirable continent for a certain rich man.

Her husband took her arm and shepherded her out of the press.

“See now, kid,” he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, “you jus’ stay ’ere an’ watch out for me. I’m off to find your trunk.”

“All right, Bob,” said Lady Ann Minter.

Alone for the first time since her marriage, she strove to marshal her thoughts. These, however, were mutinous. The flight of opportunity, the welter of noise and movement on the fringe of which she stood undermined her authority. It was vital that she should think quickly and clearly, that she should make up her mind. Everything was depending upon immediate decision. But the very premises were denied her. She was wild to face the facts: but the facts danced and flickered and would not be faced.

Hideous, blazing queries blinded her fumbling brain. She found herself reading them aloud.

“Why didn’t I think of all this? How can I possibly bear it? What shall I do—_do_?”

And then the scorching answers.

“God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .”

She saw her father standing with his back to the log-laden hearth—saw his white, set face and his tightened lips. There were roses on the mantelpiece behind him, and a Morland hanging above—a spreading oak and a cottage and a jolly brown horse. . . . and a woman was standing in the doorway, holding a little boy, and a man on the horse was smiling . . . and they were all alone and happy, under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but alone and very happy. . . .

She saw her aunt on her knees with tears running down her face—saw the china ranged orderly upon the walls—smelt the pot-pourri she had made the year before. The evening sun was pouring into the chamber, planting badges of gold on plate and bowl and pitcher, turning the closet into a queen’s parlour. . . .

She saw the register office and the registrar’s face like a mask, heard the cameras click as she and Bob passed out, felt the insolent stares of the waiter who brought them lunch. . . .

The journey down had been frightful. The heat, the discomfort, the everlasting talk. . . .

The coaches had been standing in the August sun and had become veritable ovens. Such air as entered them was baked instantly. Yet, the fight for seats had been savage—one woman had been knocked down, and children had been dragged and trampled. Bob had secured two places because he was strong, but one had been seized before his bride could take possession. A violent dispute had followed, while Ann stood between the seats smiling nervously and ready to die of shame. Indeed, but for the timely eviction of another inmate, the sudden activity of whose diaphragm disclosed the moving fact that he was considerably the worse for liquor, relations must have been strained beyond the breaking-point. The spectacle, however, of the wages of intemperance had proved that touch of Nature which can twitch discord into harmony, and for the next twenty minutes various appreciations of the episode revealed a cordial unanimity which was almost affecting. That a family in a corner should at the last moment have been rudely reinforced by the irruption of two small boys was sheer misfortune. In the absence of seating accommodation it had been impossible to protest against their occupation of the open windows—delicious tenancies, of which they took full advantage, boisterously exchanging reports and frequently subletting their coigns of vantage to one another. The corporal enfilading of the compartment which such arrangements necessitated had soon developed into a game, the pursuit of which their kinsfolk made no attempt to check until a particularly deliberate collision had afforded one tenant a pretext for hitting the other on the nose. The consequences of the assault had been frightful. The combatants were dragged yelling apart, the aggressor was cuffed into tears more explosive than those of his victim, both were shaken and reviled, the flow of blood was arrested by a handkerchief which had already been used as a dressing and was swaddling an ounce of bull’s-eyes, hideous threats were issued, provocative comments upon upbringing were audibly exchanged. Only the production of food had at all relieved the tension, but under the healing influence of snacks good humour had more or less revived. A baby-in-arms had been given a ham sandwich—at least, the apex had been introduced into its mouth. It gnashed and sucked contentedly, while protruding shreds of fat liquefied upon its chin. A girl had abstractedly devoured plums and put the stones in Ann’s lap. A married couple opposite had seemed incapable of underestimating the capacity of their mouths, thus inconceivably embarrassing their efforts to keep the ball of _badinage_ rolling and distorting such retorts as they felt must be expressed into fresh dummies for their opponents’ thrusts. Before the meal was over the train had run into a tunnel and, after slowing down to a crawl, come to a dead stop. Someone had giggled, and a burst of hysterical laughter had succeeded the soft impeachment of gallantry. In the midst of it all Ann had felt Bob’s arm steal round her and his lips on her cheek. He had kept his arm about her for the rest of the trip. . . .

And now—

Again she tried to concentrate—haul her thoughts into line. They came sluggishly.

Married . . . she was married . . . married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of her father’s grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had married him in London that morning, and——That morning? Was it possible that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the registrar had bowed and . . .

Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go.

She stared at her wedding-ring . . . touched—plucked at it desperately.

The hideous queries and answers leapt like rams possessed.

“Why? God knows. . . . How can I? I must. . . . What? _Nothing._”

For an instant panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes.

Then—

“All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your taxis?”

“Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.”

He preceded them wearily.

“You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride.

Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers.

“Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but . . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’ for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live. Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.”

Ann’s brain reeled.

‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’

The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . . _privacy_. . . .

She was outcaste, of course—excommunicate. The order had been made that morning. She had signed it herself deliberately—with open eyes. More. She had done it gladly. She wanted to be expelled, that she might live with Bob—_but under a spreading oak_ . . . _in a cottage_ . . . _alone, as outcastes live_ . . . not—not at Suet . . . not ‘grubbing with Aunt Harriet and the girls and Uncle Tom.’ . . . She thought Bob had understood that. She had told him so plainly—a child could have understood. And yet . . .

The pathos of his failure hit her between the eyes. He couldn’t grasp that she didn’t want ‘a show’—couldn’t appreciate such heresy. Her words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have as fine a show as he could compass. Other women must be made jealous of her fortune. Others could skulk in cottages and under spreading oaks; but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet, and have the best room in the place . . . looking over the pier. . . . It was the most loving compliment he could pay.

By a supreme effort Ann drove the consternation out of her eyes, shook off the cold clutch of Horror and squeezed her husband’s arm.

“You’re very good to me, Bob,” she said steadily. “I think you were wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best room in Suet.”

Bob coloured with delight.

“Oh, it’s nothin’ much,” he said awkwardly. “I ’spect you’ve often ’ad rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I’ll be giving you the best . . . jus’ for once.”

He broke away and made for a cabman, who, learning his applicant’s vocation, might see his way to take them on trade terms.

Ann watched him dazedly.

Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing.