“She’s better nor any train,” said the latter shortly.
If the surface was none too good, at least the way was straight and the
road open. The reaches became gigantic: after each bend you could see
for miles ahead. The traffic, too, was negligible. It was, indeed, the
exception not to have the road to yourself.
With the roar of a lion, the great car leapt at her prey. . . .
Time and again the illusion of the frantic approach of things stationary
was almost irresistibly real. Time and again, when the road rose and
fell, the sensation of using a switchback was painfully acute. Time and
again, as they passed another vehicle, the fierce cuff of uproar made
Fairfax wince. Time and again pace dislocated sight and left the brain
fumbling.
Villages sprang into being out of flat places: a huddle of distant dots
shivered into a town: as for the eternal trees beside the road, they
seemed no farther apart than a ladder’s rungs.
The windscreen was open, and the warm air tore at their ears: the
thunder of the engine became a stock background of resonance against
which other sounds stood up as against silence: it seemed that hearing
was going the way of sight.
Presently came Poitiers.
They skirted the ancient city and streaked up the Ruffec road.
Punch began to wonder what time Beringhampton would arrive. If it was
the Spanish Express which he had caught, he might, he reckoned, reach
Biarritz by seven o’clock. That meant that at eight o’clock he could
take the field—not a very convenient hour, but better than nine. Oh,
infinitely better than nine. And if Athalia could help, of course she
would. He had only to send up a note and ask her to give him ten minutes
before she dined. . . .
Punch began to construct the interview with narrowed eyes, and
presently, being very tired, he fell asleep.
The chauffeur roused him, to point to a fine old city piled up on a
hill.
Fairfax could only stare.
It was Angoulême.
They swept the hem of her garment and on to the Bordeaux road.
It was during this lap most of all that the burden and heat of the day
made themselves felt. The sun seemed to know that they were fighting
with Time and to take up the cudgels upon his captain’s behalf. The fury
of light and heat punished them mercilessly, scorching their faces,
keeping their eyes hooded and making the muscles of their eyelids ache
hideously with the strain. But the chauffeur never complained or
slackened speed. The man understood well enough that Fairfax and
Beringhampton were riding some race, and the memory of the stripes which
the latter had laid upon him made him strain every nerve to bring the
former home. Punch was certainly well horsed. The fellow knew his engine
inside out: besides, he had done some racing and remembered the tricks
of the trade.
There were times when the car swept like a blast of the wind: at others
she whizzed like a shell shot out of a gun: now she swooped and sailed
like a ranging gull, and now she soared up a hill with the rush of a
lift: and once, on a good piece of road, for three long minutes she
seemed to be standing still, heaving gently like a ship riding at
anchor, while five miles of the countryside slid into and out of sight.
They ran into Bordeaux at a quarter to six.
There they took in petrol and ate and drank. And Fairfax called for a
time-table and studied it while he fed. He might have spared his labour.
The table was two years old, and the pages he needed were gone.
They were in the car again by six o’clock.
There was pavement to come now—some of it pretty bad. Who went by
Salles avoided the very worst—and tacked ten miles on to his journey.
Fairfax went by Salles: it was not his car.
He had his reward.
The sun had retired now and was well on their right: the air was cooler,
and a faint tang of salt hung in its breath: the blessed evening was
coming to ease their progress.
Fairfax never forgot that last long stretch.
The sun was going down, and the shadows were growing long, and distance
was creeping close. Ahead and on either hand the countryside was gone:
Earth seemed to have thrown back to the days before she was tamed:
Nature ran wild. Forest and furze and broom had the world to themselves.
And the car shore them in two as a draper’s scissors shear stuff—league
after shining league, with a steady snarl. Twice they met a lorry and
three times a touring car and twenty carts, perhaps, in nearly a hundred
miles. . . .
They swept through St. Geours with twenty-five miles to go.
They dropped down into Bayonne, slipped across the Adour, swung to the
right at cross-roads, and followed the tram-lines out.
They had to go slowly then, for the road was narrow and full. Still,
they edged their way along, passing when there was room.
They floated into Biarritz at twenty-five minutes past eight. . . .
There was no room at the Carlton, but Lady Defoe was there, so they
promised to squeeze Punch in.