“Good day,” I said cheerfully, speaking in French. “I’m on my way back from a ball – a fancy-dress ball – and my car has run out of petrol. I want to hire a cart to go to Argelès.”
If I had said I wanted to hire a steam-yacht, my simple statement could not have been more apathetically received…
Happily, for some unobvious reason, no one seemed to associate me with the bullocks’ waywardness, but it took me ten minutes’ cajolery to elicit the address of a peasant who might hire me a cart.
At last I was told his lodging and pointed the way. Such direction proved supererogatory, first, because we all moved off together, and, secondly, because it subsequently transpired that the gentleman whom I was seeking was already present. But that is France.
Upon arrival at his house my friend stepped out of the nick and, with the utmost composure, asked if it was true that I was desiring to be driven to Argelès. Controlling my indignation, I replied with equal gravity that such was my urgent ambition. Taking a wrist-watch from my pocket, I added that upon reaching a garage at Argelès, I would deduct the time we had taken from half an hour and cheerfully give him a franc for every minute that was left.
I can only suppose that so novel a method of payment aroused his suspicion.
Be that as it may, with an apologetic bow, the fellow requested to see the colour of my money.
Then and then only did I remember that I had not a brass farthing upon my person.
What was worse, I felt pretty sure that Adèle and Berry were equally penniless…
My exit from that village I try to forget.
I found that the waters of humiliation were deeper than I could have believed. They seemed, in fact, bottomless.
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say that I returned by the way I had come. I had had enough of the road to Argelès. My one idea was to rejoin Adèle and Berry and to sit down in the car. Mentally and physically I was weary to death. I craved to set my back against the buttress of company in this misfortune, and I was mad to sit down. Compared with standing any longer upon my feet, the contingency of dislocation became positively attractive…
The first thing that met my eyes, as I limped round the last of the bends, was the bonnet of a dilapidated touring car.
I could have thrown up my rotten hat.
A few feet further from Lourdes than Pong himself was an aged grey French car. Standing in the white road between the two was a strapping figure in pale pink georgette and a large Leghorn hat, apparently arguing with three blue-covered mechanics. From Pong’s offside window the conical hat and extravagant ruff of ‘Pierrette’ were protruding excitedly.
My companions’ relief to see me again was unfeigned. As I came up, Adèle gave a whimper of delight, and a moment later she was pouring her tale into my ears.
“You hadn’t been gone long when these people came by. We stopped them, of course, and—”
“One moment,” said I. “Have they got any petrol?”
“Listen,” said Berry. “Four
bidons
of what they had are in our tank. It was when they were in, that we found we hadn’t a bean. That didn’t matter. The gents were perfectly happy to take my address. A pencil was produced – we had nothing, of course – and I started to write it all down on the edge of yesterday’s
Le Temps
. They all looked over my shoulder. As I was writing, I
felt
their manner change. I stopped and looked round.
The fools were staring at me as if I were risen from the dead
. That mayn’t surprise you, but it did me, because we’d got through that phase. For a moment we looked at one another. Then one picked up the paper and took off his hat. ‘It is unnecessary,’ he said, ‘for
Monsieur
to give us his name. We know it perfectly.’ The others nodded agreement. I tell you, I thought they’d gone mad…”
He pushed his hat back from his eyes and sat down on the step.
“But – but what’s the trouble?” I gasped.
Berry threw out his hands.
“Haven’t you got it?” he said. “
They think I’m Sycamore Tight
.”
I soon perceived the vanity of argument.
With my brother-in-law in the hand and fifty thousand francs in the bush, the three mechanics were inexorable.
They accepted my statements; they saw my point of view; they uncovered; they bowed; they laughed when I laughed; they admitted the possibility, nay, likelihood of a mistake; they deplored the inconvenience we were suffering. But, politely and firmly, they insisted that Berry should enter their car and accompany them to Lourdes.
That this their demand should be met was not to be thought of.
Adèle and I could not desert Berry; from the police at Lourdes nothing was to be expected but suspicion, hostility, and maddeningly officious delays; Berry’s eventual release would only be obtained at a cost of such publicity as made my head swim.
Any idea of force was out of the question. But for the presence of my wife, we would have done what we could. With Adèle in our care, however, we could not afford to fail, and – they were three to two.
I racked my brain desperately…
Presently one of the trio lugged out a watch. When he showed his fellows the hour, they flung up their arms. A moment later they were clearing for action.
Le Temps
was carefully folded and stuffed out of sight. Berry was informed, with a bow, that, so soon as their car was turned round, they would be ready to leave. The slightest of the three stepped to the starting-handle…
The next moment, with a deafening roar, their engine was under way.
I was standing with my hand upon our off hind wing, and as the driver ran to his throttle, I felt a steady tremor.
Under cover of the other car’s roar, Adèle had started Pong’s engine.
What was a great deal more,
she had given me my cue
.
I thought like lightning.
There was not a moment to lose. Already the driver was in his seat and fumbling with his gear-lever…
As slowly as I dared, I strolled to the off-side door.
Adèle’s and my eyes met.
“When you hear me say, ‘Look’,” I said.
With the faintest smile, ‘Pierrette’ stared through the wind-screen…
I returned to the rear of the car.
The way we were using was narrow, but fifty paces away in the direction of Argelès was a track which left our road to lead to a farm. For this spot the driver was making. There he would be able to turn with the acme of ease.
His two companions were standing close to Berry.
As luck would have it, the latter was standing with his back to our car, perhaps a foot from the tail-lamp.
Not one of the three, I fancy, had any idea that our engine was running.
I addressed the mechanics in French.
“I have been talking with
Madame
, and, tired as she is, she agrees that it will be best if we follow you to Lourdes. Please don’t go too fast when you get to the town, or we shall lose our way.”
As they assured me of their service, I turned to Berry, as though to translate what I had said.
“There are two steps to the dickey. The lower one is two paces to your right and one to your rear. It is not meant for a seat, but it will do. Throw your arm round the spare wheels and sit tight.”
Berry shrugged his shoulders.
A glance up the road showed me the other car being turned into the track.
I crossed to the near side of Pong and stooped as though to examine the exhaust. The two mechanics were watching me…
With the tail of my eye I saw Berry glance behind him, sink down upon the step, drop his head miserably into the crook of his arm, and set that arm upon the spare wheels.
Suddenly I straightened my back, glanced past the two warders, and flung out a pointing arm.
“
Look!
” I shouted, and stepped on to the running board.
As I spoke, Adèle let in the clutch…
It was really too easy.
By the time our two friends had decided to turn and inquire what had excited my remark, we were ten paces away and gathering speed…
Of course they ran after us, yelling like men possessed.
That was but human.
Then they recovered their wits and raced for their car.
I cried to Berry to sit tight, and opened the door…
“Is he on?” said Adèle, as I took my seat by her side.
I nodded.
“As soon as we’re far enough on, we must take him inside. He ought to be safe enough, but I’ll bet he’s blessing his petticoats. As for you, sweetheart, I don’t know which is the finer – your nerve or your wit.”
A cool hand stole into mine.
Then —
“But we’re not there yet,” said Adèle.
This was unhappily true.
Pong was the faster car, and Adèle was already going the deuce of a pace. But there was traffic to come, and two level crossings lay between us and Lourdes.
I turned and looked out of the glass in the back of the hood. The English Rose had thrust herself inelegantly on to the petrol tank. Her right foot was jammed against a wing, so that her shapely leg acted as a brace: her arms clasped the two spare wheels convulsively: her head was thrown back, and her lips were moving… Of our pursuers there was no sign. That moment we had rounded a bend, but when a moment later we rounded another they were still out of sight.
I began to wonder whether it was safe to stop and take Berry inboard…
Then the Klaxon belched, and a cry from Adèle made me turn.
Two hundred yards ahead was a flock of sheep – all over the road.
We had to slow down to a pace which jabbed at my nerves.
I did not know what to do.
I did not know whether to seize the chance and take Berry inside, or whether to put the obstacle between Pong and the terror behind, and I felt I must look at the sheep.
The speedometer dropped to twenty…to fifteen to ten…
Then the tyres tore at the road, and we practically stopped.
Adèle changed into second speed.
I opened the door instantly, only to see that to collect Berry now was out of the question. The sheep were all round us – like a flood – lapping our sides.
Adèle changed into first.
I was physically afraid to look behind.
The next moment we were through.
We stormed round a curve to see a level crossing a quarter of a mile ahead.
The gates were shut.
Adèle gave a cry of despair.
“Oh, Boy, we’re done!”
“Not yet,” said I, opening the door again. “Go right up to them, lass. At least, it’ll give us a chance to get Berry inside.”
We stopped with a jerk three feet from the rails.
As I ran for the gate, I glanced over my shoulder.
“Now’s your chance!” I shouted. “Get …”
I never completed the sentence.
The English Rose was gone.
I stopped still in my tracks.
Then I rushed back to the car.
“He’s gone!” I cried. “We’ve dropped him! Quick! Reverse up the way we’ve come, for all you’re worth.”
Adèle backed the car with the speed and skill of a professional. I stood on the running-board, straining my eyes…
The next moment a dilapidated touring car tore round the bend we were approaching and leapt towards us.
It passed us with locked wheels, rocking to glory.
At a nod from me, Adèle threw out the clutch…
As the mechanics came up —
“I’m sorry,
Messieurs
,” I said, “but I fear you’ve passed him. No, he’s not here. Pray look in the car… Quite satisfied? Good. Yes, we dropped him a long way back. We thought it wiser.”
With that I wished them ‘Good day,’ and climbed into our car.
“But what shall we do?” said Adèle.
“Get home,” said I, “as quick as ever we can. So long as we stay hereabouts, those fellows’ll stick to us like glue. We must go and get help and come back. Berry’ll hide somewhere where he can watch the road.”
As we passed over the level crossing, I looked behind. The dilapidated grey car was being turned round feverishly.
Forty-five minutes later we sped up the shadowy drive and stopped by our own front door.
‘Pierrette’ switched off the engine and sat looking miserably before her.
“I wish,” she said slowly, “I wish you’d let me go with you. I did hate leaving him so, and I’d feel—”
With a hand on the door, I touched her pale cheek.
“My darling,” said I, “you’ve done more than your bit – far more, and you’re going straight to bed. As for leaving him – well, you know how much I liked it, but I know when I’m done.”
“’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone…”
Delivered with obvious emotion in a muffled baritone voice, Moore’s famous words seemed to come from beneath us.
Adèle and I stared at one another with starting eyes…
Then I fell out of the car and clawed at the flap of the dickey…
My hands were trembling, but I had it open at last.
Her head pillowed upon a spare tube, the ruin of ‘An English Rose’ regarded me coyly.
“I think you might have knocked,” she said, simpering. “Supposing I’d been
en déshabille
!”
How a Telegram Came For Jill, Piers Demanded
His Sweetheart, and I Drove After My Wife
Rome.
My Darling Jill,
It’s all finished now, and I can start for Paris tomorrow. I must stay there one night, to sign some papers, and then I can leave for Pau. And on next Sunday morning as ever is, we’ll have breakfast together. Perhaps – No, I won’t say it. Anyway, Sunday morning at latest. Everyone’s been awfully kind, and – you’ll never guess what’s coming – Cousin Leslie’s turned out a white man. He’s the one, you know, who brought the suit. The day I got back from Irikli I got a note from him, saying that, while he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t sorry he’d lost his case, he knew how to take a beating, and, now that it was all over, couldn’t we be friends, and asking me to come and dine with him and his wife at the Grand Hotel. Old Vissochi didn’t want me to go, and kept quoting something out of Virgil about ‘fearing the Greeks,’ but, of course, I insisted. And I am so glad I did. Leslie and his wife were simply splendid. Nobody could have been nicer, and considering that, if he’d won, he’d ’ve had the title, estates, money and everything, I think it speaks jolly well for them both. They’ve got two ripping little boys, and they were frightfully interested to hear about you. They’d no idea, of course, but I just had to tell them. They were so astonished at first they could hardly speak. And then Mrs Trunk picked up her glass and cried out, “Hurray, Hurray,” and they both drank to us both, and everybody was staring, and Leslie got quite red with embarrassment at their having made such a scene. Then they made me tell them what you looked like, and I did my best, and they laughed and said I was caking it on, so I showed them your photograph. And then Mrs Trunk made me show her a letter of yours, and told your character from your handwriting, and we had a great time. Oh, Jill, I’m longing for you to see Irikli. Of course I love Rome, but I think we’ll have to be at Como a lot. Father always liked it the best, and I think you will. It’s so lovely, it makes you want to shout. It only wants a princess with golden hair to make it fairyland, and now it’s going to have one. Oh, my darling, I’m just living to see your beautiful face again and your great grave grey eyes. Jill, have you any idea what wonderful eyes you’ve got? I say, we are going to be happy, aren’t we? So happy, we shan’t have time for anything else. But I can’t wear a body-belt, dear. Not after this. I promised I would till I came back, but I’m almost melted. I don’t think Jonah can be right. Anyway, I’ll bet he doesn’t wear one.
Your very loving
PIERS.
My cousin showed us the letter with the artless confidence of a child.
Excepting herself, I don’t think any one of us shared the writer’s enthusiasm about Mr Leslie Trunk. We quite agreed with Signor Vissochi. It was hard to believe that the man who had instituted such an iniquitous suit could so swiftly forgive the costly drubbing he had received, or, as heir-presumptive to the dukedom, honestly welcome the news of Piers’ engagement. Sweetheart Jill, however, knew little of leopards and their spots. Out of respect for such unconsciousness, we held our peace. There was no hurry, and Piers could be tackled at our convenience…
The conversation turned to our impending departure from France.
“I take it,” said Jonah, “that we go as we came. If we’re going to Paris for the Grand Prix, there’s not much object in stopping there now. In any event, it ’ld mean our going by train and sending the cars by sea. I’m not going to drive in Paris for anyone. I’m too old.”
After a little discussion, we decided that he was right.
“Same route?” said Adèle.
“I think so,” said Jonah. “Except that we miss Bordeaux and go by Bergerac instead.”
“Is that shorter or longer?” said Berry. “Not that I really care, because I wouldn’t visit Bordeaux a second time for any earthly consideration. I’ve seen a good many poisonous places in my time, but for inducing the concentrated essence of depression, that moth-eaten spectre of bustling commerce has them, as the immortal B-B-B-Wordsworth says, beat to a b-b-b-string-bag.”
“I don’t seem to remember,” said Daphne, “that it was so awful.”
“It wasn’t,” said I. “But the circumstances in which he visited it were somewhat drab. Still, it’s not an attractive town, and, as the other way’s shorter and the road’s about twice as good—”
“I’m glad it’s shorter,” said Berry. “I want to get to Angoulême in good time.”
“Why?” said Jill.
Berry eyed her reproachfully.
“Child,” he said, “is your gratitude so short-lived? Have you in six slight months forgotten that at Angoulême we were given the very finest dinner that ever we ate? A meal without frills – nine tender courses long? For which we paid the equivalent of rather less than five shillings a head?”
“Oh, I remember,” said Jill. “That was where they made us use the same knife all through dinner.”
“And what,” demanded Berry, “of that? A conceit – a charming conceit. Thus was the glorious tradition of one course handed down to those that followed after. I tell you, that for me the idea of another ‘crowded hour’ in Angoulême goes far to ameliorate the unpleasant prospect of erupting into the middle of an English spring.”
“It’s clear,” said I, “that you should do a gastronomic tour. Every department of France has its particular dainty. With a reliable list, an almanac, and a motor ambulance, you could do wonders.”
My brother-in-law groaned.
“It wouldn’t work,” he said miserably. “It wouldn’t work. They’d clash. When you were in Picardy, considering some
pâtés de Canards
, you’d get a wire from Savoy saying that the salmon trout were in the pink, and on the way there you’d get another from Gascony to say that in twenty-four hours they wouldn’t answer for the flavour of the ortolans.”
“Talking of gluttony,” said Jonah, “if they don’t bring lunch pretty soon, we shall be late. It’s past one now, and the meeting’s the other side of Morlaas. First race, two-fifteen.”
I rose and strolled to the Club-house, to see the steward…
This day was the sixteenth of April, and Summer was coming in. Under our very eyes, plain, woods and foothills were putting on amain her lovely livery. We had played a full round of golf over a blowing valley we hardly knew. Billowy emerald banks masked the familiar sparkle of the hurrying Gave; the fine brown lace of rising woods had disappeared, and, in its stead, a broad hanging terrace of delicate green stood up against the sky; from being a jolly counterpane, the plain of Billère itself had become a cheerful quilt; as for the foothills, they were so monstrously tricked out with fine fresh ruffles and unexpected equipage of greenery, with a strange epaulet upon that shoulder and a brand-new periwig upon that brow, that if high hills but hopped outside the Psalter you would have sworn the snowy Pyrenees had found new equerries.
Luncheon was served indoors.
Throughout the winter the lawn before the Club-house had made a dining-room. Today, however, we were glad of the shade.
“Does Piers know,” said Adèle, “that he’s coming home with us?”
Jill shook her head.
“Not yet. I meant to tell him in my last letter, but I forgot.” She turned to Daphne. “You don’t think we could be married at once? I’m sure Piers wouldn’t mind, and I’d be so much easier. He does want looking after, you know. Fancy his wanting to leave off that belt thing.”
“Yes, just fancy,” said Berry. “Apart from the fact that it was a present from you, it’d be indecent.”
“It isn’t that,” said Jill. “But he might get an awful chill.”
“I know,” said Berry. “I know. That’s my second point. Keep the abdominal wall quarter of an inch deep in lamb’s wool, and in the hottest weather you’ll never feel cold. Never mind. If he mentions it again, we’ll make its retention a term of the marriage settlement.”
Jill eyed him severely before proceeding.
“It could be quite quiet,” she continued; “the wedding, I mean. At a registry place—”
“Mrs Hunt’s, for instance,” said Berry.
“–and then we could all go down to White Ladies together, and when he has to go back to fix things up in Italy, I could go, too.”
“My darling,” said Daphne, “don’t you want to be married from home? In our own old church at Bilberry? For only one thing, if you weren’t, I don’t think the village would ever get over it.”
Jill sighed.
“When you talk like that,” she said, “I don’t want to be married at all… Yes, I do. I want Piers. I wouldn’t be happy without him. But… If only he hadn’t got four estates of his own, we might—”
“Five,” said Berry. Jill opened her big grey eyes. “Four now, and a share in another upon his wedding day.”
Jill knitted her brow.
“I never knew this,” she said. “What’s the one he’s going to have?”
Berry raised his eyebrows.
“It’s a place in Hampshire,” he said. “Not very far from Brooch. They call it White Ladies.”
The look which Jill gave us, as we acclaimed his words, came straight out of Paradise.
“I do wish he could have heard you,” she said uncertainly. “I’ll tell him, of course. But it won’t be the same. And my memory isn’t short-lived really. I’d forgotten the Angoulême dinner, but I shan’t forget this lunch in a hundred years.”
“In another minute,” said Berry, “I shall imbrue this omelette with tears. Then it’ll be too salt.” He seized his tumbler and raised it above his head. “I give you Monsieur Roland. May he touch the ground in spots this afternoon. Five times he’s lent me an ’unter-’oss out of sheer good nature; his taste in cocktails is venerable; and whenever I see him he asks when we’re going to use his car.”
We drank the toast gladly.
Roland was a good sportsman, and throughout the season at Pau he had been more than friendly. He was to ride two races at the meeting this afternoon.
“And now,” said I, “get a move on. St Jammes is ten miles off, and the road is vile. If we’d got Roland’s flier, it’ld be one thing, but Ping and Pong’ll take their own time.”
My brother-in-law frowned.
“Business first,” he said shortly. “Business first. I spoke to the steward about the cutlets, and I won’t have them rushed. And if that’s our Brie on the sideboard – well, I, too, am in a melting mood, and it’s just asking for trouble.”
There was a fresh breeze quickening the air upon the uplands beyond old Morlaas, to whip the flags into a steady flutter and now and again flick a dark tress of hair across Adèle’s dear cheeks.
As we scrambled across country —
“Why, oh, why,” she wailed, “did ever I let it grow? I’ll have it cut again tomorrow. I swear I will.”
“And what about me?” said I. “You’re a joint tenant with me. You can’t commit waste like that without my consent.”
“I’m sure I can abate – is that right? – a nuisance.”
“It’s not a nuisance. It’s a glory. When I wake up in the morning and see it rippling all over the pillow, I plume myself upon my real and personal interest in such a beautiful estate. Then I start working out how many lockets it ’ld fill, and that sends me to sleep again.”
“Does it really ripple?” said Adèle. “Or is that a poet’s licence?”
“Rather,” said I. “Sometimes, if I’m half asleep, I feel quite seasick.”
Adèle smiled thoughtfully.
“In that case,” she announced, “I’ll reconsider my decision. But I wish to Heaven it ’ld ripple when I’m awake.”
“They’re off!” cried Jonah.
A sudden rush for the bank on which we were standing confirmed his report. We had much ado to escape being thrust into the deep lane the bank was walling.
The lane was about a mile long, and so was the bank. The latter made a fair “grand stand.” As such it was packed. Not only all the visitors to Pau, but every single peasant for twenty miles about seemed to have rallied at St Jammes to see the sport. The regular business of the race-course was conspicuously missing. Pleasure was strolling, cock of an empty walk. For sheer bonhomie, the little meeting bade fair to throw its elder brethren of the Hippodrome itself into the shadowy distance.
Roland rode a fine race and won by a neck.
We left the bank and walked up the lane to offer our congratulations.
“Thank you. Thank you. But nex’ year you will bring horses, eh? An’ we will ride against one another. Yes? You shall keep them with me. I ’ave plenty of boxes, you know. An’ on the day I will give your horse his breakfast, and he shall give me the race. That’s right. An’ when are you going to try my tank? I go away for a week, an’ when I come back yesterday, I ask my people, ‘How has Captain Pleydell enjoyed the car?’ ‘But he ’as not used it.’ ‘No? Then that is because the Major has broken her up?’ ‘No. He has not been near.’ I see now it is not good enough. I tell you I am hurt. I shall not ask you again.”
“Lunch with us tomorrow instead,” laughed Daphne.
“I am sure that I will,” said Roland.
After a little we sauntered back to our bank…
It was nearly a quarter to five by the time we were home. That was early enough, but the girls had grown tired of standing, and we had seen Roland win twice. Jonah we had left to come in another car. This was because he had found a brother-fisherman. When last we saw him, he had a pipe in one hand, a lighted match in the other, and was discussing casts…
Falcon met us at the door with a telegram addressed to ‘Miss Mansel.’
The wording was short and to the point.
Have met with accident can you come Piers Paris.
The next train to Paris left Pau in twelve minutes’ time.
Adèle and a white-faced Jill caught it by the skin of their teeth.
They had their tickets, the clothes they stood up in, a brace of vanity bags, and one hundred and forty-five francs. But that was all. It was arranged feverishly upon the platform that Jonah and I should follow, with such of their effects as Daphne gave us, by the ten thirty train.
Then a horn brayed, I kissed Adèle’s fingers, poor Jill threw me a ghost of a smile, and their coach rolled slowly out of the station…
I returned to the car dazedly.
Thinking it over, I decided that we had done the best we could. On arrival at Bordeaux, my wife and cousin could join the Spanish express, which was due to leave that city at ten-fifteen; this, if it ran to time, would bring them to the French capital by seven o’clock the next morning. Jonah and I would arrive some five hours later…