Fate Cannot Harm Me (29 page)

“She's staying with friends somewhere on Southampton Water,” said Bobby.

I had been a little surprised that Monty's story had not ended with the discomfiture of Basil Paraday-Royne and the fulfilment of Robin Hedley's revenge. To me it seemed inartistic to risk the anticlimax of continuing his chronicle. So now I saw an opportunity of turning the conversation into the channel where I wished it
.

“I suppose she was staying with Lady Dennison, wasn't she? I remember she had a house down there.”

“Lady Dennison? Her aunt, who used to take her about when she was a girl? Oh, didn't you know? But of course you wouldn't—it must have happened after you left England. Poor old Lady Dennison died very suddenly of a heart attack—let me see—it must have
been somewhere about the beginning of 1933. She was a dear, and Cynthia was devoted to her. But I'd no idea that you knew her.”

For a moment all my confidence left me. That was why I had had no letter—no warning from her! Once more I was seized by a gnawing fear that, after all, Cynthia was lost to me. And yet, no—that was surely impossible, for the second safeguard still remained. I had been promised a happy ending. I forced myself to speak quietly
.

“Yes. I was fond of the old lady, and in a sort of way I trusted her a good deal. But go on with the story. I'm curious to hear what more there is to be told.”

Monty glanced at me a little questioningly, and for the first time since he had begun he seemed to find some difficulty in choosing his words. But he continued the narrative
.

“What a pity. Cynthia's such fun; it's a pity when these engagements clash.” He left the dining-room, and filled his pipe. Just time for a comfortable smoke before the day's shooting began.

Then, suddenly, a horrible, menacing thought entered his mind. Southampton Water! And Robin Hedley sailed from Southampton that afternoon! With miserable clarity he saw it all now—how blind, how criminally blind he had been! Hadn't he always guessed that Cynthia was impressed by Robin's talk of real work and life and the hollow shams of the Society in which she lived? She was going away with him! The
Gargantua
would sail that afternoon with Cynthia as well as Robin among the passengers. He saw it all as clearly as though he had himself made the plan, and persuaded her to it, and taken the tickets! Probably they had come to an understanding already at Critton in the summer. It was just the kind of mad, reckless adventure that would appeal to her. But what a cad the man must be to do such a thing! Even Basil would never have stooped to
that. Well, Robin
was
a cad, if you came down to brass tacks, and he
was
capable of an act of that kind. Could he have persuaded her? Women were fools about matters of that kind, even the best of them. The glamour of a kind of modern elopement, the sheer enjoyment of defying conventions and her social world—yes, such things would appeal to her. But somehow, anyhow, by fair means or foul, she must be stopped; must be made to see that an act like this was not just a wild and thrilling adventure but social annihilation—that it was an act irrevocable, destructive of all her happiness, suicidal. Perhaps there was still time! Breathlessly Monty charged into the smoking-room, seized a Bradshaw, and pored over its pages. Curse these cross-country journeys! There wasn't a hope, try it whichever way he would! He dropped the Bradshaw in despair.

On the drive outside Bertie Blenkinsop passed in his car. He felt the responsibility of owning the fastest car in England, and since manufacturers were constantly making improvements he was compelled to change his car with some frequency. A new one had just been run in, and Bertie was now demonstrating it to a couple of the nieces. Monty made up his mind in an instant. He walked round to the front of the house, and shouted to Bertie, who had just come to a stop, and was climbing out.

“May I look at her, Bertie, she seems to be a screamer?” For five minutes the gratified owner explained the merits of his car.

“Do you mind if I give her a run to see how she goes?”

“Of course, you'll find her an absolute peach to drive.”

Monty jumped in, and started down the drive. Southampton! In a car like this he'd do it easily with an hour and a half to spare. Lucky that Bertie wasn't the sort to make a fuss. They'd be two guns short now instead of one. He changed into top, and began to work out a route in his mind.

He knew the house at which Cynthia was staying, and decided to take it on his way. It only meant an extra eight or ten miles, and they'd know there if she was actually on board the
Gargantua
. Not that he had any doubt that she would be. His intuition was not likely to deceive him. The scene was as clear to him as though he had actually seen it. He pictured the planning and the packing, the excitement of the departure. Yes—he pictured it all, and with each mile that he drove, his anger against Robin Hedley surged higher. Somehow, anyhow, he would stop this madness. It was only about half past twelve when he reached the house. He jumped out of the car, and was just about to ring the bell, when he looked across the lawn—and there—well there, throwing a stick for a couple of spaniels—was Cynthia. The wind was in her hair, and her cheeks sparkled. Never, in the eyes of one man at least, had she looked lovelier.

“But, Monty dear, whatever are you doing here?” she asked. A fixed idea takes a great deal of uprooting from a man's mind. Monty looked at her with amazement, and stammered like a schoolboy:

“Doesn't the
Gargantua
sail at two to-day?”

“I believe she does, but whatever's that got to do with you and me?”

Monty's mind refused to adapt itself to the new situation.

“Have you seen Robin Hedley's book?” he asked with apparent irrelevance.

“That odious book; yes, I have. He brought me a copy the day before it came out. Oh, Monty, it's hateful! He stabs all his friends, and my friends, one after another. And to think I talked about it with him whilst he was writing it, and encouraged him to make it a success! Oh, I can never forgive him! And—and he had the impertinence to think that I should like it—that I should enjoy seeing my friends laughed at.”

She stamped her foot on the ground.

“But you haven't come here to ask me about a book. What in the world has brought you here?”

Monty felt as though the sun had suddenly burst through the clouds. He laughed out loud, and then for a moment he felt almost light-headed.

“Do you remember about Dizzy's first election,” he said, “at least I think it was the first, and I think it was Dizzy, but I'm not a bit sure. He made the cleverest speech from the hustings that ever was, and it lasted a long time. His opponent couldn't make head or tail of it, but he got up at the end, wiped his face with a bandana handkerchief, and said ‘Damme, I am an honest man.' He got nearly all the votes after that. Cynthia dear, I'm not awfully clever like Basil, and I can't turn out high-class stuff like Robin, but I'm terribly in love with you, and always have been. And you know I've enough money now to make us pretty comfortable and we always have got on so awfully well together. Cynthia, I'm doing this all wrong, but will you marry me, dear?”

It was her turn to laugh now.

“You silly boy, Monty, of course I will. Why didn't you ask me months ago? Never mind, I'll forgive you now you've done it. Do you know, Mrs. Vanhaer always told me you would. Oh, I can't help laughing! The last man that proposed to me did it in a swing-boat! And you tell me some extraordinary story about an election. And I suppose you've forgotten all the important things, I mean rings and everything like that. But I don't care a bit, if you're quite sure you want to marry me.”

Desperately I tried to control myself. The air in the dining-room of the Trufflers weighed on me like lead; Monty's voice seemed to come from a vast distance. So this was the end of my romance, the grave of all my hopes! Why had I not dared to challenge my fate that
summer day at Critton? Why had I obeyed Lady Dennison? Fool, dolt that I had been, to listen to the voice of caution and restraint! And now Monty, my best friend, had seized the prize. He was speaking again
.

“We were married six weeks ago—there seemed no object in waiting. As a matter of fact, we're just back from the honeymoon. Cynthia's had to go away to a sick cousin in Yorkshire, but she'll be back this week. You must come to see us. Anthony, old boy, I'm a very, very happy man.”

I tried not to let him know; I swear that I tried to speak my congratulations as though they came from the heart of a friend. I lifted my glass to him and drained it. But my whole world had been shattered, and I think my face betrayed me, or maybe my voice
.

“Christ, man, you're pale! What is it? Not enough air here?” He jumped up to open a window, but I knew that as he did so he guessed, for I saw his face change. Thank God he didn't try to say anything. He didn't ask questions, he didn't try to explain or excuse or commiserate with me. He did not even try to keep me … I remember being helped into my coat, I remember the grip of his hand, I remember stepping into the street
.