“I feel I’m asking for trouble,” said the man, “but I may as well have a
dart.” He rose, stepped to her side and took her small hands in his. “I
don’t believe I’ve an earthly, Athalia dear, but, whatever happens, I’ll
have been with you a bit, won’t I? And—when I’m hungry, I expect I’ll
be glad of those crumbs.”
Miss Choate said nothing.
Fairfax kissed her cool fingers.
* * * * *
Six weeks had gone by, through which, so far as his secretaryship
permitted, Punch had devoted his time to Athalia Choate. Three days out
of five he saw her by hook or by crook. One night they danced together,
another they dined. Twice, time being hard to come by, they had met
before breakfast in the Row. On three out of seven Sundays they had
spent the day in his car—a powerful grey two-seater, aged and greedy,
but sound and good to look at. The comfort of its rubbed cushions stuck
in the memory, like that of a glass of old port.
Such attention would not have been possible, but for the lady herself.
Athalia’s parents were dead, and, though she visited America every
autumn, the great mansion in Philadelphia was rented year after year,
and its girlish landlord spent nearly all her time within hail of a
beloved aunt. The latter had married one of the King’s Household. . . .
The engagement-book of an exceptionally attractive heiress, so
chaperoned, is apt to be full. But Athalia saw to it that Punch was not
crowded out. More. True to the spirit of their contract, the girl never
fobbed him off. Whenever he sought her company, she gave it with a quick
smile. If his work made their meeting difficult, she helped him to find
a way. If he bored her, she never showed it: if another should have
stood in his shoes, she gave no sign. Only, though she had her own cars,
she never used them once when Fairfax was there. Whatever the night, she
came and went by taxi if Punch was to be her squire. And though two or
three times he came to her uncle’s house, it was always to big parties,
where he was one of a crowd. If she entertained herself, Fairfax was
never asked.
That this faintly surprised the latter, the following letter will show.
He wrote it to his twin sister, Lady Defoe.
_July 18th, 1923._
_Dear Judy_,
_The worst has happened. I knew it would. I’m off my feed. As
gentle a brace of kidneys as ever you saw. . . . I give you my
word, I had to cover them up—they stared so reproachfully.
Well, it’s my own fault. I walked slap into the cage—Athalia
showed me round it: together we looked at the bars. And now I
can’t get out. I tell you I’ve got it bad. I’ve got to the
mathematical stage—adding up how many hours before I see her
again, subtracting so many for sleep and glaring at the balance
as if it were a bad debt. Did you ever do that, Judy? And all
the time I’m racking my rotten brain. . . . I’m sure it’s
Beringhampton. I’m positive. He knew her before, of course: but
he never sat up and took notice until a month ago. And
now—well, Mary’s lamb isn’t in it. He’s always around
somewhere—always. I happen to know he loathes racing, but the
two days she was at Newmarket there he was. I must admit he’s
good-looking—I think he’s the best-looking man I ever saw. But
he’s a queer-tempered cove. And I’m sorry if he’s the man—as he
surely is. You see, Judy, no one else fits. If you asked me to
find a fellow who needed a lead, who didn’t know his own mind,
who’ld keep on staring at a strawberry and thinking what a
whopper it was without it entering his head that he might as
well pick it—I should shout ‘Beringhampton.’ Everyone would.
Oh, of course it’s him. ‘The man I love.’ Aren’t women funny? Of
course I may be wrong. There’s plenty of other lads all over
Athalia; but they’re not hard up for ideas. They don’t need any
pushing: most’ld look a bit better with four-wheel brakes.
Again, it may be someone who hasn’t stripped: but, if it is,
they’re lying devilish low. I tell you I’ve racked my
brain. . . . But whoever it is has done me in all right—mucking
about like this. Damn it, they must love her, unless they’ve got
tea in their veins. You’ve only got to see her for that. Then
what’s their mouth for? And while they’re boggling, I’m being
broken up. . . . And there you are. If somebody said, ‘All
right: they shall speak to-night,’ I’ld knock his face through
his head. I love my tenterhooks. You know—the ‘sweet sorrow’
stunt. I tell you, Judy, I’m on the edge of poetry. I want the
business finished and I don’t want it finished. I don’t know
what I want. Yes, I do._ I want Athalia. _I want her as I never
wanted anything before. I thought I wanted her six weeks ago.
‘Want’? I didn’t know what the word meant. I’m absolutely mad
about her, Judy. I don’t let her see it, you know, but when she
appears I have to hold on to something or I’ld be jumping up and
down. Her eyes, her hair, her blessed mouth—why, her little
mouth’ld make most women, wouldn’t it? You do like her, don’t
you? Of course I know you do, but just say so in your next
letter. Just make up something nice and shove it in. It’ll be
like a drink to me. . . . Well, I don’t know what’s to happen.
We never fixed a time-limit, so this may go on for months.
Sometimes I feel I can’t bear it—only last night I damned near
had it all out. But then, if I do and she thinks the other
cove’s warming up, everything’ll be queered: I shall be fired on
the spot and my precious little bubble’ll become, as they say,
disintegrated. Whereupon I shall seek the water under the
earth. . . . At other times I’m afraid—terrified, Judy old
girl, that the very next time I see her she’s going to say,
‘He’s won,’ and wring my hand and thank me for working
Beringhampton up to the scratch. You see, she’s no idea that
she’s shortening my life. She knows I’m out to marry her, but
she doesn’t dream that I’m nearly off my head. I hide it all
right, you know. Most casual, I am. And when she isn’t looking,
I kiss her blessed gloves. . . ._
_She doesn’t ask me to dinner. That shows how little she knows.
Of course she’ld ask me if she thought I’ld care to come. It
just doesn’t occur to her, Judy. I admit she asks
Beringhampton—at least, she did last time. . . ._
_I suppose you couldn’t write and suggest that she came to
Biarritz. Wrap it up, you know. Say the bathing’s a treat, and
it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that
sort of wash. You see, I can get leave in August, and what more
natural or pious than that I should come and see you?
Incidentally, that’ld show us whether Beringhampton means
business. If he follows her to Biarritz, he simply must speak._
_So long, Judy love,_
_Punch_.
_P.S.—Of course, it may be all over before August. I don’t_
think _B.’s going strong, but, except for Sundays, I never see
her by day. From ten to six he’s got the course to himself.
These cursed idle rich. . . . I tell you I’m seeing the Labour
point of view._
_P.P.S.—What an_ histoire _this letter is! I’ve just been
reading it through, and it’s shaken me up._
_I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming
unbuttoned at last._
Seven days later Miss Choate confided to Fairfax that she had heard from
Judy.
“Not my twin-sister?” said Punch, with a daring display of amazement.
“The same,” said Athalia. “Why shouldn’t I hear from her?”
“No reason at all,” said Punch, “except that she never writes. I’ve had
six letters from her since she was married—that’s seven years ago. Mole
says she’s a vegetarian—thinks it cruel to use ink, but, speakin’ as
one who’s known her all her life except the first twenty minutes, I
incline, as they say, to the view that she’s labour-shy. What does she
say?”
“Suggests that I come to Biarritz. By way of inducement she adds: _The
bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the
War, and all that sort of wash._”
Mentally, Fairfax consigned Lady Defoe to a resort where the warmth
would be still more remarkable.
“Must be losing her mind,” he said shortly. “What ‘wash’?”
“Can’t conceive,” said Miss Choate innocently. “Never mind. The point
is, shall I go?”
“Why not?” said Punch. “It’s about the only place in Europe I know where
you can bathe in comfort without a fleece-lined wet-off bathing-suit and
a sealskin towel. I shouldn’t faint with surprise if I rolled up there
myself. I want to see Judy, and my leave starts on the sixth.”
“I’m not sailing till the end of September,” said Athalia musingly, “so
I could put in a month. I must confess I’ld rather like to get warm.
When’s your Bank Holiday?”
“Sixth of _août_,” said Punch. “I should give that a miss.”
“If I went on the fourth . . .” She sighed. “At least, it’ll be a
change. After all, Life’s rather like a frock. If it’s to be a success,
you must see it from every angle. Besides, to tell you the truth, I
think it’ld be a good move—my suddenly leaving the stage. Nature abhors
a vacuum.”
Fairfax’ heart stood still.