Fate Cannot Harm Me (26 page)

A little smile passed over Monty's lips
.

“You've been thinking, old friend, that I was spending much more on this dinner for you than I ought to be able to afford. Confess now, you were worried a little because you thought I was being extravagant.”

I blushed ever so slightly, for that had been exactly what I had been thinking for the last hour. When one is far too rich oneself it is misery to feel that one's friends are spending money which they can ill afford
.

“Well, you can enjoy your brandy with a clear conscience. With what I earn, and what my aunt left me, and what came along… but I'm anticipating. Anyhow, I'm comfortably off nowadays and can well afford occasionally to do myself well—though I never forget how you once came to the rescue when I really was stony.”

I blushed again and felt a little embarrassed, yet somehow glad that Monty had not forgotten that small service
.

“Let's have the rest of the story,” I said
.

“With the greatest pleasure—that is, if you're really not bored by it
.'

Paraday-Royne, Hedley; Hedley, Paraday-Royne, you must remember that they were always the leading figures, the protagonists, though I know that that tiresome fellow Monty Renshaw has been thrusting his way in a good deal. But fundamentally my tale is a sort of double biography—it's the tale of the rivalry of those two men. That's where the dramatic interest lies. It was a bitter sort of rivalry, too, as you've guessed by now, and all the more bitter because it was disguised from the world up to the very end. Why, right up to that astonishing denouement almost every one in London thought of them as the modern counterparts of David and Jonathan—but again I'm anticipating. I really must tell the story in the same way as I began it
.

That autumn Monty watched with growing interest the preparations which were made for the publication of
Ladies' Lure
. Some books seem to slip into the world as though by accident, whilst others are advertised and talked about before their appearance to a quite astonishing extent. I don't suppose that any book in the last few years had been more boosted than
Ladies' Lure
. Believe me, whoever was responsible for its publicity knew his job. Every gossip column and every “literary page” seemed to be full of it. Of course, Robin Hedley was a considerable writer, and he, and his publisher, made no secret of regarding the new book as something superior to any of his previous work,
Pertinacity
included. But that alone didn't explain the interest which was excited. Probably the uncertainty helped; it was to be a novel about modern Society—so much everyone knew—but was it to be satirical or merely photographic, did it have a message to give or just a story to tell; was
it likely to be an ephemeral picture of the life of the day, or was it to deal with the great permanent emotions, using the life of London Society as a convenient, but unimportant, background? And, of course, the human element came in. One writer after another, at a loss to fill his column, would slip in a sentence or two about Paraday-Royne and Hedley, whose literary friendship was always good copy. “I am told that in his new novel the distinguished author of
Pertinacity
has benefited even more than before from the critical assistance of Basil Paraday-Royne. The friendship of these two writers, which does honour to them both, is a notable example of the goodwill which pervades the world of letters. How pleasant to see help thus generously offered and graciously accepted! It will be a surprise indeed if
Ladies' Lure
does not accurately reflect not only Mr. Hedley's solid craftsmanship but also the critical acumen and the nicety of phrase which has always characterized Mr. Paraday-Royne's writings. In such circumstances it is a duty to borrow and a privilege to lend. Almost one might speak of collaboration, though it is true that one name only will appear on the title-page.” How often did Monty read such paragraphs as that, and how much they annoyed him!

“Pompous twaddle!” he would exclaim, flinging down the paper. “But good publicity. The romantic touch, and all that, and a thoroughly sentimental appeal. I wonder if it's possible to be
too
sentimental if you want a big public?”

Yet he could not disguise from himself the fact that he was profoundly interested in the psychological problem of the two men. The death of his aunt had caused him to hurry away from Critton just at the time when he was trying to make up his mind which of them, if either, was the more favoured by Cynthia. He realized, too, that he was afraid of the event. “Dash it all, Basil was good fun, but he
had
got a streak—unbearable to think
of him marrying Cynthia. And Robin?—of course he was a better man, but there was something ruthless, and a little—well—common about him. A touch of the cad, perhaps? Intolerable to think of Cynthia married to a man not quite a gentleman.” His mind moved in that kind of way, and he hated himself for feeling so about his friends. Mentally Monty accused himself of disloyalty to both, and tried to adopt a more charitable view. He was not very successful; try as he would he could not bring himself to think of either man without a certain antipathy—and with the certainty that he wished them both to be rejected, his curiosity grew too.

He met Basil one evening in the club in October, and determined to cast a fly over him at a venture.

“Well, how's the great work going?” he asked casually. It seemed to him that Basil, usually so sparkling and sleekly satisfied with himself, was moody and ill-at-ease.

“I'm not doing much work at the moment.”

“I was thinking really of Robin Hedley's
magnum opus
. All the world knows how much you're helping him. I suppose it really will be a major triumph?”

Basil looked at him a little angrily. Perhaps he had forgotten just how much he had confided in Monty at Critton, perhaps he regretted having given away so much, perhaps the circumstances had altered since then. In any case his answer was noncommittal.

“Everything Robin writes is good work. I don't think that you or any one else will be disappointed with
Ladies' Lure.”

Monty would have liked to ask some more questions, but the other's manner did not encourage inquiries.

“Now I wonder,” thought Monty, “is he still really ignorant about the book, or does he know all about it? In either case he's on a pretty safe thing. It's sure to be good, and he's sure to get half the credit for his help, whether he deserves it or not. But I should like to know if he's really been helping, or whether they've quarrelled
like hell, and are just keeping up appearances. He's so dashed clever when it comes to looking after his own interests. I think I'll look in on Robin Hedley some day soon, and see how he's getting along; I've not seen him since August.”

A couple of days later he made an excuse to call on Robin in Ebury Street, and found him working with all his old method and determination. Robin greeted him cordially and they talked for some time, but Monty went away with the feeling that he had learnt little.

“What is the position?” he thought to himself as he walked home. “He talks with enthusiasm about his book, but shuts up like an oyster when I try to find out what's in it. He says that Basil has helped him immensely, and obviously wants me to think that he's got rid of all that jealousy about
Pertinacity
. He talks about Cynthia almost as though she were just one of a host of his friends. And yet I'll dare swear that he hates Basil like poison, and that he's head over heels in love with Cynthia. Is it possible that he's come to some agreement with her? He's always talking of the publication of this book as a sort of turning point in his life, as though he was going to do quite different things as soon as he's got it off his chest. And he's got a sort of arrogant kind of confidence in his voice that I don't like. Surely, surely he can't have persuaded her to an engagement which they're keeping secret? No, it's not possible; he's not happy enough for that. And yet there's that arrogance, and that harping on the publication of his work. He's the type, too, that's quite a goodish loser, but a damned bad winner. If he won he'd gloat a bit, I think. Basil's all the other way—wins gracefully, but is a poor loser. Well, 'pon my word, I'm fixed. I just don't know what they're up to.”

Monty felt more irritable than he had for months. He did not understand what was going on; he scented drama and was unable to enjoy it—much less to influence it.
Delicacy forbade that he should interrogate Cynthia, but he watched her. To him at that time she seemed hardly her usual joyous self; she was a little
distraite
, a little more serious, even a little anxious. “She's got something on her mind,” Monty thought, “she's not quite happy, she behaves as though she was waiting for a crisis of some kind.” He felt more than ever puzzled.

That was how matters stood when Monty started for Critton, to shoot, on the third Wednesday in November.

Monty paused and refilled my glass with brandy … “We're coming to the denouement now, and your glass mustn't be empty. You'll remember that I told you that I thought you'd be pleased with the ending.”

I nodded. “Thank God,” I thought to myself, “I was right. She
can't
have married either of them. He's just said that he was beginning to dislike them both, and now he repeats that there's a happy ending.” My jealousy of the two passed, I began to feel that they were pleasant though unfortunate fellows—how easy it was to be charitable towards them now!

“Please hurry up, and tell me, then; you're making me excited to know how it all finished.”

Monty was in high spirits as he drove to Paddington; the November shoot at Critton was always good fun, and the house would be full of his friends. Besides, to get away from London for a few days was in itself a source of happiness. It was true that he was a day late, for unexpected business had kept him, but he would be in time for the big day on Thursday. He had his small luggage placed in a carriage, and then strolled across to the bookstall. And there—well, there he had the shock of his life.

Pretty well the whole bookstall was covered with copies of
Ladies' Lure!
Yes, Robin Hedley's book was
out, and selling already even in a railway station like hot cakes. To the casual observer there might seem nothing extraordinary in that—nothing to justify Monty's amazement. But he, after all, was connected as a journalist and a writer with the world of books, and knew how these things were done. It is true that no specific date of publication for
Ladies' Lure
had been announced; it had been supposed that it would appear in time for Christmas. But where were the reviews, the advance copies, the announcements, the preliminaries which normally launch a best—seller on its course? Why, in Heaven's name, had they all been omitted? Why had this book, so much discussed and so eagerly expected, slipped, as it were, into the world like a seven-months' child? Was it a blunder, or a piece of very skilful literary midwifery? Perhaps it was really the result of organizing skill, and in its way good publicity. After all, every one knew about the book and every one would read it; wasn't it rather good tactics to let it start its career without the usual preliminary notices and the usual puffs? The journey to Critton would pass quickly, anyhow; Monty, as he bought his copy, promised himself the intellectual pleasure of deciding by internal evidence just how much Paraday-Royne had been grafted on to the Hedley stock. As he reached his carriage he turned back again. They would not have the book yet at Critton, he reflected, and every one would be madly keen to read it. He bought two more copies and put them in his suit-case. Then he settled down for his, three-hour journey.