Fate Cannot Harm Me (23 page)

“Damn you, I wish you wouldn't make a joke of it all,” said Basil—nevertheless, he seemed relieved that he need not explain his feelings. “But you're dead wrong about the book. Somehow it's become a habit of his to talk to me about it, and I'm—well—I'm not the one to stop it. He's always talking to me about it, showing me short passages, mainly of description, asking my advice about style and so forth, inviting criticism. It's an odd affair altogether. He keeps saying how indebted he is to me, and he tells the same thing to every one who will listen. I'm bound to say he's very generous about that—this time. And yet I don't mind telling you that I'm worried to death about it all. I simply haven't the least idea what's really in the book,
or what it's all about. Oh, yes, I know I said he was always showing me passages from it, and so he is, but they're invariably just bits and snippets and even mere paragraphs. He'll talk for half an hour sometimes about the phrasing of a few sentences. Yet somehow I never see enough together to get an idea of the book as a whole. He always puts me off when I suggest that I should read a chapter or two on end. Perhaps he's really jealous still, and afraid that I shall get too much credit from it. (Basil allowed himself a cynical and rather bitter smile.) So there it is. I'm constantly consulted, constantly told that my help is invaluable, and yet in sober fact I know next to nothing about the book. Well, it will be out soon, and I suppose that will be all right. For Heaven's sake don't say a word of this to anyone. I'm always telling you much more than I mean to.”

“I shall be as silent as the grave. Meantime, my task to-day is to see that the hated rival does not cut you out. I warn you that if I were not a poor, miserably paid journalist I should probably snatch the lady from both of you. But, as things are, you may regard yourself as safe—till lunch-time at least. However far they slice their ball into the rough I shall pursue them; I shall follow into the deepest bunker—in short, no opportunity shall be given for a proposal on the links. You have my personal guarantee that Cynthia shall arrive at the luncheon-table without an engagement ring on her finger—unless, of course, she and Robin come down impossibly early to breakfast, and he proposes over the coffeepot. Perhaps I'd better abandon this bath to you, and get dressed to see that there's no mischief.”

“You're an ass, but a useful one,” commented Basil.

The morning fulfilled its early promise, and Monty thoroughly enjoyed an hilarious foursome. Robin, it
is true, was his usual determined self, resolute and painstaking, but the other three laughed so much and engaged in so much back-chat that neither side was able to shake off the other. It was not until the last green, where Robin refused to give Sybil Montressor a very short putt (which she thereupon missed amidst a howl of laughter), that the match was over. Basil, playing behind them, was conceding a half to Mrs. Vanhaer, and had the mortification not only to be beaten, which surprised him very much, but also to discover that his opponent was dialectically his equal, which surprised him still more. At lunch, and after it, Monty watched with absorbed interest the manœuvres of Basil and Robin to secure a monopoly of Cynthia's company.

“Round two, points about equal,” he noted to himself. “Sweet Basil gets the seat next to her at lunch, Pertinacity Robin has his deck chair beside her afterwards. She insists that both shall play tennis with her afterwards. Now which will be her partner?”

That question was settled half an hour later as they stepped on to the lawn. Cynthia's clear voice floated across to him, where he was sitting in the shade with Mrs. Vanhaer.

“Spin a racket, Basil,” she said. “Rough I play with you, smooth with Robin. I never can make out which of you is better in a mixed.”

“Very tactful,” murmured Mrs. Vanhaer, “I was wondering how she'd get round that little difficulty.”

“I shall now change, and insist on playing in the next set,” said Monty maliciously, “which do you think she will make sit out?”

Mrs. Vanhaer chuckled, and Monty strolled off towards the house.

Tea was served under the famous mulberry tree, and, with the exception of the Sevenoakses and Sir John Bullerton, who were on the golf links, the whole party assembled for it.

It was Sybil Montressor who made the suggestion for the evening.

“Aunt Daisy. That divine fair is on at Beachington. You must remember what fun we had there last year. It's simply thrilling. Do let's all go over again after dinner.”

Beachington was on the coast, twenty miles away; it held its regatta in the third week of August, and the fair was a great local attraction.

“My dear, of course if you want to go—but then we shan't get any bridge, and that would be too sad.”

A chorus of support for Sybil's proposal arose from the younger members of the party, and Lady Dormansland gave way. Inwardly she had decided without hesitation that the plan was an excellent one, and that it should be carried out.

“Well, if you all wish, I'll give up my bridge for to-night and we'll go to your horrid fair. Now, let me see, we must dine early, and we mustn't dress. And I must go and see the chauffeurs, and give them orders for the cars; how many do you think we shall want?”

“I speak as a fool,” said Bursar Browne a little ponderously, “but why shouldn't those of us who drove down here provide the cars? If we drove our own cars we shouldn't need the chauffeurs.”

“It is not always necessary to state the obvious,” muttered Sir Smedley Patteringham. Whether he referred to the first or the second part of Browne's remark seemed from his manner to be uncertain. The arrangements were soon made; dinner was to be at half-past seven, the party was to start as soon after eight-thirty as possible.

When the time came Monty was surprised to see how many volunteered to start. Patteringham, of course, settled down to punish the port, as a preliminary to enjoying an excellent cigar; the expedition held out no attractions for him whatever. No one even suggested
that Lord Dormansland should be included, and Lady Bullerton pleaded a headache. Sir William Pindle was another defaulter. As a democratic statesman he was accustomed in his speeches to refer in moving tones to the “great heart of the people,” but he did not enjoy hearing it beat at close quarters. He discovered, therefore, that his red box contained papers which demanded immediate attention. But, out of a desire for excitement, or from pure curiosity, or merely as a result of the herd instinct, all the rest insisted on seeing the fair.

There was the usual manoeuvring for position when the cars came round. Bertie Blenkinsop, who prided himself on owning the fastest car in England, and who drove it extremely badly, was astonished to find that no one seemed especially anxious to be his companion. To Monty, however, the chief interest was to see which of her admirers would secure Cynthia. To his delight he found that both of them were unsuccessful—defeated by the machinations of a more experienced person than themselves; but he never quite understood how it was that he was able to watch Basil gloomily handing the Sevenoakses into his car, whilst he himself sat comfortably beside Cynthia in Mrs. Vanhaer's Rolls.

“I'm a very good driver,” remarked that astonishing person, as she gave him the wink to which by now he was accustomed, “that's why I'm taking the folk here I like best. Of course I don't always remember that you drive on the wrong side of the road in this country. Still,” she added as they swerved past the lodge gates, “I'm calculating to make Beachington as soon as that rabbit Bertie.”

If she had not taken the wrong road and lost two or three miles she would no doubt have been as good as her word; as it was she landed her passengers, shaken but unharmed, at about the same time that the other cars arrived.

Is there anything which can compare with a fair for rousing even the most sluggish to excitement? Monty felt as though he had been transplanted a thousand miles from the quiet lawns of Critton, or a hundred years back from the twentieth century. A sort of gipsy madness seemed to invade his blood—here, in this wild turmoil of noise and colour, anything was possible and everything permissible. Restraint was gone; every woman seemed to invite a kiss; every shrill laugh was an invitation; the night was filled with riotous, intoxicating appeal. The shouts of the showmen rose above the din; the switchbacks roared and clattered to the accompaniment of their blaring music; the swing-boats soared to heaven and plunged again to earth, coconuts rattled from their pedestals, the lights blazed round the tents yet left a dozen corners shrouded in a challenging obscurity. Here was life! Life as one saw it only where people crowded upon one another—in the bazaars at Cairo, in the teeming streets of Naples, or at midnight in Montmartre. Monty plunged into the throng.

Bertie Blenkinsop, blinking through his horn-rimmed glasses, found himself separated from the rest of his party. It was curious, he reflected, how often he seemed to be alone on occasions of this kind. Peering round at the tents and booths he observed one which, in letters a foot high, announced that a bearded woman could be viewed for threepence. After consideration he decided that the expenditure would be justified. As a prospective member of Parliament it behoved him to study all manner of people; besides, happy thought, this was no doubt a wandering show, and the bearded woman might have a vote in his own constituency. Congratulating himself on his public spirit, Bertie lifted the flap of the tent and went in. Apparently the bearded woman was not the most popular feature of the Beachington fair.
Part of the tent was screened off, but in the remaining space there was only one person, a middle-aged man sitting upon a bench. The light was bad, Bertie was short-sighted, and as he advanced, he stumbled heavily over the unknown individual's outstretched foot. How it was that that foot protruded so far he did not pause to inquire, nor indeed did he have time, for a storm of indignant protest immediately assailed him.

“'Ere, gov'nor, wot the 'ell are you trampling on a pore man's foot for? My
bad
foot too, wot I've spent pounds and pounds on doctors to get 'ealed. Yer did it apurpose, but yer ain't a-going to treat a pore man like that. Lame I may be, but I'll show yer how ter larf on t'other side of yer face.”