“Thanks to you—yes,” he said, smiling. “Good night—and many thanks.”
It would have been brutal to tell him anything else.
* * * * *
At last Punch found Athalia, by going from pillar to post. She was
staying at the _Palais_, had dined out and come back to dance.
They danced a few steps. Then he led her out of the ballroom and into
the August night.
“What is it?” she said.
“He’s here somewhere. Has he spoken?”
Athalia looked away.
“Not yet,” she said slowly. “Not yet, but—I think he will . . . any
moment, now.”
Fairfax stared at the sea shifting to and fro and the line of miniature
breakers curling and roaring as gently as sucking doves.
He had done it—achieved his purpose. It seemed impossible that only
that morning he had stood on the quay at Dieppe and gone over the car.
Yet he had done so—that morning. And now—here he was at Biarritz. And
there was Athalia looking at him with steady eyes. And Beringhampton had
not spoken. . . . He was—in time.
The tragedy of it was _he had nothing to say_.
There _was_ nothing to say. He had meant to ‘have it out.’ He had torn
across France like a madman to ‘have it out.’ Have what out? There was
nothing to have out. Athalia had said as much . . . _any moment,
now_. . . . In the face of that, how could he——
He began to wonder whether such a giant fool’s errand had ever been run
before.
Athalia was speaking.
“What is it, Punch? You didn’t start a day early to ask me that.”
“I didn’t start a day early.”
A puzzled look came into the great brown eyes.
“But you can’t have——”
“Yes, I did,” said Fairfax. “I got to Dieppe this morning and came down
by road. I started from there at seven and got here at half-past eight.”
Athalia started.
Then she caught at his arm.
“Punch, Punch! You might have broken your neck! Why—why did you come so
terribly fast?”
The man hesitated.
“Why?” breathed Athalia.
Punch swung round and caught her hands in his.
“Will you forgive me if I tell you?”
“I’ve asked you to.”
“Why, then, it’s because I had to—had to get here and see you before he
came. I couldn’t stand by, Athalia, and watch you step out of my life
without a word. I’m mad—crazy about you. I can’t think of anything
else. When I’m not with you everything’s dull and flat, and the only way
I get through is by thinking of what you look like and how soon I’ll see
you again. Your hair, your eyes, your temples, your precious, darling
mouth—I know every tiny look of them. If I could paint, I’ld paint your
portrait from memory without a slip. I know your hands and the shape of
your tiny nails, and I’ld know your step from a million if you were
going by. Oh, my lady, I do love you so. I thought I did when I asked
you to be my wife, but I didn’t at all. I hadn’t begun to love you. But
now . . . Oh, Athalia, my sweet, I’ve tried to play the game. You don’t
know what it’s meant to sit by your side in the car and see your face at
my shoulder and hold my tongue. I’ve had to hold on to myself to keep my
head. When I said that but for your money I wouldn’t have opened my
mouth, I must have been mad. If you hadn’t a bean—why, I’ld go across
Europe on my hands and knees and beg and pray you to let me ‘bring you
down.’ Yes, I’ve got to that, my lady. Bringing you down or no—I’ld beg
and pray. You see, I’ve turned selfish. You’ve come to mean too much,
and that’s the truth.” He stopped short there. Then he let fall her
hands and turned to the sea. “And there you are, sweetheart—I can call
you that this once. You asked me why I hurried, and now you know. If
he’d spoken before I got here, I couldn’t have told you this. And I felt
I wanted you to know. That’s all. I just wanted you to know . . . how
very much . . . I cared.”
For a moment the girl said nothing.